Her parents were a branch of the
de Choiseuls, and their prejudices were even stronger than those of my
father. Little did they think what was passing in the minds of their
children. Many a time when they were mourning a French victory in the
parlour we were both capering with joy in the garden. There was a
little window, all choked round with laurel bushes, in the corner of the
bare brick house, and there we used to meet at night, the dearer to each
other from our difference with all who surrounded us. I would tell her
my ambitions; she would strengthen them by her enthusiasm. And so all
was ready when the time came.
But there was another reason besides the death of my father and the
receipt of this letter from my uncle. Ashford was becoming too hot to
hold me. I will say this for the English, that they were very generous
hosts to the French emigrants. There was not one of us who did not
carry away a kindly remembrance of the land and its people. But in
every country there are overbearing, swaggering folk, and even in quiet,
sleepy Ashford we were plagued by them.
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