Those were delicious hours spent on that sofa in the garden-house, in
looking out on sunny days over the wide stretches of river and the
picturesque landscape, listening to the sound of her children's voices
as they laughed at their own laughter, to the little quarrels that
told most plainly of their union of heart, of Louis' paternal care of
Marie, of the love that both of them felt for her. They spoke English
and French equally well (they had had an English nurse since their
babyhood), so their mother talked to them in both languages; directing
the bent of their childish minds with admirable skill, admitting no
fallacious reasoning, no bad principle. She ruled by kindness,
concealing nothing, explaining everything. If Louis wished for books,
she was careful to give him interesting yet accurate books--books of
biography, the lives of great seamen, great captains, and famous men,
for little incidents in their history gave her numberless
opportunities of explaining the world and life to her children. She
would point out the ways in which men, really great in themselves, had
risen from obscurity; how they had started from the lowest ranks of
society, with no one to look to but themselves, and achieved noble
destinies.
These readings, and they were not the least useful of Louis' lessons,
took place while little Marie slept on his mother's knee in the quiet
of the summer night, and the Loire reflected the sky; but when they
ended, this adorable woman's sadness always seemed to be doubled; she
would cease to speak, and sit motionless and pensive, and her eyes
would fill with tears.
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