[Footnote: No wonder Madame de Bellaise's descendants dust not
publish these writings while the ancien regime continued!]
In due time we arrived in Paris. It was pouring with rain, so no one
came to meet us, though I looked out at every turn, feeling that
Eustace must indeed be unwell, or no weather would have kept him from
flying to meet his Meg. Or had he in these six long years ceased to
care for me, and should I find him a politician and a soldier, with
his heart given to somebody else and no room for me?
My heart beat so fast that I could hardly attend to the cries of
wonder and questions of the two children, and indeed of Cecile, to
whom everything was as new and wonderful as to them, though in the
wet, with our windows splashed all over, the first view of Paris was
not too promising. However, at last we drove beneath our own porte
cochere, and upon the steps there were all the servants. And
Eustace, my own dear brother, was at the coach-door to meet us and
hand me out.
I passed from his arms to those of my mother, and then to my
sister's. Whatever might come and go, I could not but feel that
there was an indefinable bliss and bien-etre in their very presence!
It was home--coming home--more true content and rest than I had felt
since that fatal day at Nancy.
My mother was enchanted with her grandson, and knew how to welcome
Madame d'Aubepine as one of the family, since she was of course to
reside with us.
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