Prince's daughter E-Book

Max du Veuzit

• Herausgeber: Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 349

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

Serious events force me to leave France," announces his wife Gys de Wriss, Prince of Ampolis, shortly after his marriage. Gys never returned to the home. He ignores the birth of his daughter Gyssie, the death of his wife. The result of this long separation: a destroyed household, a grave, a cradle. Gyssie, at the age of eighteen, helped in her efforts to find her father by Alex Le Gurum, discovered him in Holland. To the reproaches of her daughter who accuses her of having fled her responsibilities, Gys de Wriss answers: "What are you here to talk to me about fatherly love? At your age, what weight can it carry for you who will be pushed towards another being for a new life? I made you a prince's daughter. Isn't that enough? Do you want money?" Under outrage, Gyssie throws her mother's notebook of confidences in the face of the one who denies her. "Here! Read this. You may understand.... " Gyssie still has Alex's love left. But is that love sincere?

Leseprobe

Prince's daughter

Prince's daughterCreditsIIIIIIIVVVIVIIVIIIIXXCopyright

Prince's daughter

Max du Veuzit

Max the Veuzit is the pen name of Alphonsine Zéphirine Vavasseur, born in Petit-Quevilly 29 October 1876 and died in Bois-Colombes 15 April 1952. It is a French language writer, author of numerous romance novels with great success.

Credits

At Mohamed Zouari, boss,

in loving tribute.

Mr. du V.

This story is not entirely a work of imagination. It is based on an absolutely authentic: a marriage contracted with confidence in an unknown legation, a young girl of good family.

All place names, races and characters have been changed naturally.

I apologize for not being able to give more details, all the heroes of this little drama still alive at present.

Mr. du V.

I

In light air, yet fresh at this early hour, the bell of the old church tinkled merrily.

When the last vibration had died away, the wood door weathered by the years turned on his heavy fittings and under the dark porch appeared the clear silhouette of a blond girl dressed in white.

It was big and soft with eyes clear blue and dazzling complexion Nordiques.

His whole person emanated a scent of freshness, healthy living and ardent youth. Yet his eyes at that moment seemed veiled in melancholy.

It was the morning of July 18 and Gyssie of Wriss, of Ampolis princess to celebrate its twentieth anniversary, had just heard Mass in this humble church of an old Breton village.

Behind her, an old farmer had, in turn, crossed the threshold of the holy temple.

Arrested for a second, to allow women to join her, the girl ran his serious look on the funeral enclosure which she knew every corner.

- It seems that there is sadness in the air, now she murmured thoughtfully.

- Oh ! my princess, protested his companion. The sun shines behind the mist ... And, as nothing can tarnish the luster of youth in bloom, no thought is to really darken your face twenty years ... Such a beautiful age! ... Turn your eyes to the future, my princess.

Gyssie did not answer.

A sense of isolation was heavy upon it in this commemorative day she was kneeling on the grave of one who had died giving her life, twenty years ago. She also thought that the only heart that could beat in unison hers was that of the old Breton who accompanied him. But all the tenderness of dear old she could compensate for the lack of kissing a real mom?

The little rustic cemetery, flowered between its stone slabs, like a well-kept garden, surrounded the church according to centuries-old custom of our French villages.

Without the need to consult the girl and the old woman walked together through the narrow alleys, to a tomb of granite, carefully adorned with fresh flowers.

Together they gathered, serious and quiet, before the large tombstone lying on the mound on which was engraved the inscription:

Here lies

Mrs. Gys of Wriss

Ampolis Princess, Duchess of Marzon

Born Valentine Chauzoles

Dead in his twenty-second year,

provided with the sacraments of the Church.

In pace.

Gyssie's eyes filled with tears rereading the beloved name of the young mother that she had not known. It was a gentler emotion really sad ... regret not bitter ... something she expressed softly to herself:

- My dear mother ... my poor mum of twenty-one years ... we have almost the same age, she then and me now ... Look, Grandma, she added, turning to the old peasant woman, it's strange when I think of my mother - and I think very often! - I cannot represent myself as a very young woman, almost a child like me ... I think it's a sister I lost a sister ... I would have loved so much!

- Yes, replied the Breton ... she was so young, so sweet and so confident ... a child like you, indeed.

- I like him, is not it?

The old woman looked intently at the girl and shook his head:

- No, she said. You have the same smile and you have the same tone of voice ... I often think I hear the dear lady. But you do not like him. You're bigger and you're blond ... probably like ...

She stopped suddenly. It was simply that Gyssie continued:

- Like my father.

And she sighed.

His father ! She did not cry like a death, since there was no evidence that he was dead; but what was he more or less, in truth?

Gyssie did not know ... She had never seen.

He himself still seemed unaware that he had a child in France, the result of his marriage, a girl who bore his name and which, every day, praying to God to bring him to her.

And Gyssie between the grave of his mother and the thought of a father so far away, sighed again, because she felt doubly orphaned.

- Ah! granny, she said with emotion, I have no one but you on earth. You're all that I possess such affection ... It's godmother and you who have been really my whole family; but she left it too! I did more than that Grandma raised me ... my good grandma who never left me and to whom, however, I am united by no bond of blood.

- I will have received at your arrival in the world, is that this is not a sufficient connection to you really be my girl?

Spontaneously Gyssie leaned and kissed her nurse; Then coaxingly, she clung to his arm.

- I'm great, I still like to lean on you, good friend, she explained. As long as I have you, I really will not be alone.

But the two women were coming out of the cemetery and turned onto the road. They were quick to cross the village of Coatderv, which is not very big and old Breton whose name means "oak," precisely because it stretches like a narrow ribbon on the edge of a forest of ancient oaks.

The path, shaded by tall trees, leading to the manor Kerlan, passed a small farmhouse, isolated from the town and apparently uninhabited for a long time.

Before this hovel, the girl held his companion and said:

- Let's go to Ty-Coz, Grandma ... Since today is my birthday, I want to see where I was born.

- Willingly, my Gyssie replied the old woman, a little moved this request. I had planned your wish: I have the key on me ... so enter!

The lock squeaked and it was very well push the two leaves of the door, the timber being inflated by moisture. Ty-Coz, "the old house" was not receiving daily visits from his owner, Marie-Yvonne Guillou, the old woman who had just Gyssie high and that the latter affectionately called "Grandma."

The air in the great and unique room on the ground floor, kept the slight smell of smoke and soot special wet rustic houses, even when the fireplace is off for a long time.

- There are nineteen it's uninhabited. Despite its thick walls, Ty-Coz starts to be very dilapidated, Maryvonne observed with a sigh of regret before the ravages of time.

- When I get rich, Grandma, I will refurbish and we will have a beautiful home.

- Oh ! protested the nurse. I hope that later you dwell your father's palace, my princess.

- It does not prevent me from returning to rest here ... Understand well, good friend, that whatever the future holds, I will never forget the place where I was born and where I grew up with your two dearest affections ... Coatderv is godmother and you ... twenty years happy and carefree ... May the rest of my life will not be less than that spent so sweet ...

- May Heaven hear you, my pretty!

*

Through the open door, the sun shone merrily every corner of the room, making the pearl shine shells stored under cabinets as an ornament, provision is sometimes met in Brittany, in the neat houses, so that below furniture appear neat and clean around the dirt floor.

Gyssie sat on the trunk of chestnut wood that served as a bench at the fireplace, opposite the main bed she stared at a somewhat thoughtful eye.

- So this is where I was born, she whispered. This is where my dear mother, so few days after my birth, was asleep in his last sleep.

Again, deep emotion resulted in his slow voice. However, his pensive gaze lingered on the pillow where the dear mother head had been based.

- My mother ... until his last breath, that's where she slept, she still thought aloud.

- Come on, my little hunting these dark ideas.

But Gyssie did not hear. She kept staring at the box bed.

- No, since she is lying, is not it?

- No, of course ! A real princess had another busy ... it was born! It was sacred! ... I, at first, I preferred the other berth ... that the back of the room ... You, we had put you in the bottom of the cabinet ... They are so deep, our cabinets in Britain, they can accommodate a baby.

Another silence after which Gyssie turned his head and looked with a shudder the table. This long table on which the entire household eats every day; but this table is also, according to Breton custom, to draw the funeral beds for the wake the dead.

- There she was exposed, she stammered. Faced with my cabinet. On one side of life and on the other ... Oh! as is excruciating to leave so young, leaving a baby behind.

- Come, come, Gyssie! What does it mean to have such ideas? A flower grows, dries another ... That's life! No one can do nothing and we must resign ourselves: God does what he does!

The woman spoke simply, though a little upset. His Breton fatalism that made him accept so religiously and so reasonably events, good or bad, demoralizing could not understand the thinking of the one she had raised.

But Gyssie was not a Breton purebred and resignation, despite the intervening years in this corner of primitive customs, could not get in unison with that of his old companion.

However, accustomed from childhood to respect for his nurse, she did not utter other discouraging words, and tried, instead, to take a more playful tone:

- My mom ... Today is the last I'll really know ... I have long awaited this day, Grandma ... I hope you have not forgotten?

- Of course not, I have not forgotten! Maryvonne replied, almost indignantly of the assumption. I'll do just now the promise I made to that trust in me ... It's a great day for you, my little princess. You're going to read today what our dear lady wrote to your intention ... There's a thick notebook ... and photos, civil papers, jewelry ... I ' still hear your poor mother say his low voice: "Maryvonne, I count on you to give these pages to my little Gyssie the day of his twenty years. "... She had written the last lines a morning that seemed to be stronger ... She even made plans, not believing is so sick ... and the next day she was gone ... What the good Lord the rest!

- And these things you have to get back, they are here, Grandma? asked, concerned, Gyssie after a painful silence.

- No, my daughter, I have taken everything when your godmother wished we'd stay at the castle. The box is here. Let's go now, I will give.

- Yes, let's! said the young girl, a little dark.

In silence, they won their home.

A few moments later deferred to Maryvonne Gyssie a humble white wooden box.

- The book of your mom's in there ... I have not touched it ... as his weak hands have tied the knot that seals the pages, as he stayed. You will also find in the bottom of the box all the papers that affect you and those dear lady, with modest jewelry she owned ... You see well, Gyssie, all these things have seemed sacred and great value for you. I will have kept them carefully. To you to take care of now ... Do not forget that no one could reconstruct these documents if you astray them.

- Fear not, dear. These relics are precious to me as you.

Gyssie took the wooden box with a sort of respectful fervor and pressing against his chest treasure entrusted to him, she carried him to the castle, to be all alone in the room, which for years had been her personally reserved, next to one occupied while her godmother.

Sitting in front of the box on the table, she first stood for a moment without moving.

A poignant emotion dominated and to overcome it, it remained clasped hands, his eyes far away in a kind of silent prayer.

Through the window wide open on this beautiful day, the girl had before it the park in all its depth, with the long line of three centuries old oaks that restricted in its perimeter.

To his right, at the entrance gate, stood the little house where she lived with Maryvonne.

The main house, the pavilion and the park was full of life ... Gyssie twenty years had never had another horizon.

And now the little white wood box spring was a world she did not know ... a family, perhaps? ... many things she did not suspect, at least!

Then, thoughtfully, with a kind of shyness, she opened the box.

A small school notebook, surrounded by a pink ribbon, appeared to his anguished eyes.

In a trembling hand, gently took Gyssie.

"No one has opened since your mother has formed in the ribbon," said Maryvonne.

The child, a heavy heart, leaned over the notebook and at length put his lips on the inviolate node.

This notebook that for years, no one had touched the notebook that had been the contact of the maternal hands, retained all its magnetism. It was really something to Gyssie his young mother ... something living, tangible ... like a bit of flesh she would have grazed.

- My dear mother ... my poor mama twenty years ...

Despite the years, she'd kiss print the Maternal fingers and two heavy tears rolled down her pale cheeks ...

Gyssie, the little orphan princess, for the first time in his life, made contact with his family ...

*

Between the cover and the first page of the booklet, a leaflet had been added, with these words written in a shaky handwriting:

"For my daughter, my beloved Gyssie so that the day she will be twenty years she knows the poor mother who unable to take care of his childhood on earth, but to above, will continue to watch over it and to love it. "

Gyssie, having read the first lines, stopped. The eyes blurred with tears, she tried to evoke the depths of his thought, the figure of the dearly departed with an enlarged photograph adorned the head of his bed

In his quiet contemplation, it seemed a very soft voice, deep in his heart, - "a voice like hers," as said Maryvonne, - whispered softly:

- Lily, now ...

So Gyssie overcame her emotion, wiped his eyes and read this sort of testament:

*

"February 17th. - This is for you, my child, I do not know yet, I want to write the story of my life. I'm so alone now, on earth! ...

"I have nothing, no parents, no friends, no husband, alas! near me ... nothing to comfort me your frail little life, my child, I feel awake in my womb ... that my love for you that already fills my heart!

"And I'm afraid sometimes ... A strange fear gripped me ... If my Gys, my beloved husband, longed to return too ... if my little prince (because it will be a boy) came before the return of his father ... and if I, too low, I had to miss it?

"But no luck! ... I must have courage! ...

"I'm a little sick tonight. The silence of the night impresses me, and that's perhaps why I think, at this moment, so many sad things.

"But I do not have to, I do not want to let me go to painful forebodings. I have and I want to be strong for both!

"I've seen so much, so much suffering in me and around me, it seems difficult to believe in happiness. But since I have so far triumphed bad luck, I shall still bear this expectation, this loneliness and the difficulties that may follow.

"My love for my dear husband and our children support me. Writing this diary that I undertake will help me spend so many hours of waiting ...

"Valentine Wriss,

"Princess Ampolis. "

I was born in Lyon, in the great austere and quiet town where the sun veiled in mist does not laugh every day.

And my childhood, too, knew little smiles.

I was the only child of my parents, who were no longer young, when my birth. My mother had been much shaken health and remained, it seems, constantly suffering from that day until the moment she died. I was barely two years old when this disaster happened and I could not keep any memory.

The nurse herself had not remained at home. She returned with her husband on a farm my father owned in the country and he had entrusted the task to that household.

This good woman loved me very much and I can say that the only happy moments of my early years were those stays I made to his farm during the summer months.

It was freedom, the sun, the fresh air. And it was mostly a little tenderness, big kisses and treats I had such great need.

Actually, I very clearly remember the last holiday spent with the good woman. I could have six or seven years.

I had to get to the farm at the beginning of the summer, the time of cherries. I can still see the trees in the orchard laden with red and delicious fruit. What good parts I've done this year, with two children Nanny: my foster-sister Marguerite and Gaston, the eldest! In Lyon, I was always alone in the great silent house; it would never have occurred to my father a little girl might need to jump, laugh and even cry with young ones like her. So I had never played with other comrades of my age.

Also, the farm Nanny she seemed like a paradise. Marguerite was gentle and kind. She was aged one year older than me, which made him take seriously the role of older sister, so she spoiled me as much as did his mother.

Gaston was more turbulent, but he had a wild imagination when it came to inventing games.

I would like to dwell on the happy memories ... the only, alas! that keeps my memory ... But the good times would end that year, never to return ever! ...

I do not remember having missed something in my nurse. There was always plenty healthy eating, hot milk, fresh eggs, butter exquisite and delicious fruit.

I was thoroughly washed every morning and my laundry was always well washed. But the good woman had much to do, she could watch us all day, lady! the evening, coming back from our expeditions into the countryside or our climbs in the trees, we were more or less dusty and ragged. Brambles were so mischievous!

And so that misfortune happened ...

Late one afternoon, my father arrived unexpectedly.

Nanny was in the dairy and hay to her husband.

Father therefore found no one at the farm, which probably began to put in a bad mood. He went to the grove where, under the inspiration of Gaston, we were playing the wild.

I remember every incident of that day that was the last I spent at the farm.

We took off our aprons to make turbans; the intermingling of fern leaves, we seek to imitate the feather headdresses of redskins.

It was in this unit, with a torn petticoat, scratches on his arms and face smeared fully ripe, I introduced myself to Mr. Justice civil court!

A monster would not have caused him more horror. But the horror of my father was cold as all that came from him; it was manifested by a heavy storm in silence for my company he went back to the farm.

I had, at that time, my poor little heart tight. A foreboding seemed to say that my frail child's happiness would end. I think it's that minute I made the first experience of what can be a real pain.

Instinctively frightened by the unexpected arrival of my father and his displeasure, I was wandering sadly around the house when Nanny and her husband were locked up with him.

I could hear his clear and sharp voice, alternating with the confused explanations of the household.

Some words came to me:

"Disorder, unkempt child, badly treated, disease, danger ..."

Then there was a long silence, after which my nurse came to get me.

She had red eyes.

Leading me to my room, she put me in my Sunday dress.

She could not speak, but she kissed me loudly; and I looked at her, very concerned, with a great desire to cry.

However, when it began to make a bundle of my little clothes, she could not restrain her tears, which brought forth mine.

- Vali ... My dear little girl I lose, she said, taking me in his arms and hugging me on her maternal heart.

The driving my father's voice calling from the bottom of the stairs, and we cut our outpourings brought down quickly.

In the large room, the two men were standing. The face of the judge appeared inflexible and cold, while the front of the stage manager was crossed with a worried fold.

On the table there were scattered papers and a big black book.

- Come Valentine, said my father.

He tried to take my hand, but I freed myself to run refuge in the skirts of the farmer.

- Nanny! Nanny! do not let me go. I do not want to leave you.

All sobbing me harder than others.

My father frowned at my tears that seemed to blame his decision ...

So I left the only beings who have shown me affection and given happiness.

I never saw them again.

I have since learned that my father had come that day to discuss the farm accounts and indignation to find myself ragged and daubed coincided with the finding of some irregularities in the bookkeeping.

I always assumed that said irregularities were unintentional and that the poor farmer, almost illiterate, was not more responsible than his wife was holding my savage.

But these were things that my father did not forgive!

These good people were sent. They put in their place another tenant and I never went back to the farm.

I insisted at some length on this episode from my childhood; first because it was very important for me and a serious impact on my little existence; Then, because it shows, in its most typical day, the authoritarian character of my father.

Austere and hard for himself, he was as much, if not more, for others. I do not remember having seen on his face an emotion any brand and if he happened to smile - oh! rarely! - it was with bitterness or irony.

Throughout his life, private or public, and vis-a-vis me like everyone else, he was "Mr. Chauzoles" judge in civil court!

That says it all ...

*

It was from that moment, that is to say about seven, I began to realize anything was missing and to suffer more or less consciously.

The big house was not gay! It seemed that the presence of this serious and hard man hung over everything and everyone with an oppressive weight.

The two women who served us were very stylish. Everything was in order and the job was done automatically and flawlessly, although one was already old and listless.

Fortunately, Navy, the maid who is now looking after me, was in the house a long time. She had known my mother.

It is perhaps this contributed to attach a little poor little thing that I was abandoned at that time. She would not have dared to laugh or sing in our stern remains, but she dutifully nursed me and I owe him for being a little girl properly maintained, even elegant, and well.

Navy, in truth, occupied all my childhood abandoned. I loved her for herself, but also because she knew that tell great stories. I could have listened for hours as well when wanted, Navy could tell me wonderful things.

She had been placed in his youth, at a miller whose heaven was particularly blessed union. Ten children were born to them, and about the adventures of this large brood, Navy was inexhaustible. Ten children! How much was exciting for me, poor isolated kid who never saw in any! They were, it seems, very well behaved children and Marine stories almost always had a goal of "good example", unless they were of little Marcel was the wrong subject and the little devil of gang !

And it was natural that he and his jokes more interest to me than anything!

He was teasing, malicious, unbearable, but what would I not give to know a little Marcel with whom I have played ... and even with that I would sometimes bickered me!

*

About this time, my father intervened once again in my life to decide it was time to start my training.

Naturally, he did not send me to the local school; all his snobbery and high bourgeois pretensions were opposed.

Why did he not put me on board? I have never known, and this remained a deep mystery to me, because I do not think he could find any pleasure in keeping me from him.

He chose a private course, as could choose Mr. Chauzoles judge; that is to say the closest course, the darker and more severe the cold city of Lyon. It was, however, where I spent the best moments of my adolescence.

It was the contact with young beings, with girls my age. And emulation added to the interest of the study.

There was also the curious attractiveness of a brain child without distractions. I loved the books with a passion and as soon as I could read, I threw myself on all those who came under my hand.

Fortunately, that taste was not unpleasant to my father, and like his austere library contained no frivolous or dangerous work for the youth, he never thought of myself deny access. I am truly grateful to him.

*

However, the years succeeded and my studies were ending.

I had just spent my superior patent. The course was not driving further and I foresaw with terror the months that were coming and sad house where I would be a prisoner with a father growing dark, taciturn and severe.

We had come to us hardly speak.

The meals, we took one on one, were quick and silent. My father despised, no doubt, to initiate a serious conversation with a "little girl" and I completely paralyzed by the cold, I no longer felt the courage to make any advance.

Moreover, I had no friends. The girls I had known over had never been as working companions that I was not hung out outside of school hours. Finally, the icy attitude of my father away from us those who had risky to come see me.

On the other hand, I was not allowed out alone.

My father, however, allowed me to make a farewell visit to Miss Harland, Director of my course.

I knew a long time, but very imperfectly.

It sometimes seemed, in classrooms, some majestic and almost imposing. She stared at us a deep look, teller, who intimidated a little; I would not have dared to speak to him first.

That day, she received me with cordiality which pleasantly surprised me. I was already "old", that is to say a friend rather than a student.

She told me my exam success and satisfaction I had given my teachers; I had always been noted, in fact, be a very good student.

- The work cost me no effort, I replied in all sincerity; the study was for me the best distraction.

I felt his deep gaze landed on mine; My former director understood more things than I was saying.

She asked me point-blank:

- And now, what are you doing, Valentine?

An infinite distress must have shown in my eyes because, without giving me time to answer, she added in a soft voice:

- At your age, my child, you have to create a useful occupation, a purpose in life. Graduation leaves a great void, generally; you must fill the ... I thought about something for you ...

- What is it, miss?

She smiled at the haste with which I was asked this question and explained:

- One of my good friends founded here last year under the auspices of the Red Cross, a clinic-school where young well educated girls like you are going to study nursing ... Our country needs women knowing treat children and the sick, because our public works are not always sufficient to the task ...

My heart began to beat, hopefully. My face lit up. Would she give purpose to my life miserable?

She continued, precisely:

- Does it please you, Valentine, and to occupy your free time?

- Oh ! Yes !

I could not add anything; I was moved and delighted. The director continued:

- You will be eighteen years. Three years of study lead you to your majority. If the courses you are interested, I can facilitate your admission formalities. Should the consent of your father.

All my joy fell suddenly.

- So, it's impossible, I muttered, disappointed.

- Why is that ? I'm sure Mr. Chauzoles do not refuse me, to me. Will you let me arrange the matter, my little Valentine?

- Oh ! miss, you do that?

Without thinking, a spontaneous impulse, I threw myself into the arms of this excellent woman I suddenly discovered the delicate and generous heart.

*

Miss Harland's intervention succeeded perfectly.

His age, his respected position of all, perhaps even the academic palms adorning the bodice, while inspired trust my father who knew a long time. He gave his consent.

It was a new life began for me a true liberation! ... Those three years were the sweetest I've lived in Lyon, as they departed from me this austere father's house.

The House ? I was living very little now.

In the morning, I went alone to the clinic because Navy no longer dragged like a languid shadow behind me.

I remember how I walked briskly into the fresh air these autumn mornings! I felt the joy of a prisoner who has been released.

At home I could not see my father as mealtimes.

Sometimes I was so busy with my work and excitement of my new life, I allowed myself to tell him about my work, my projects and even of my ideas.

He looked at me puzzled, as if he was surprised to hear a little girl hold her about great person. He answered all the same, but with an air so superior that I was again cold and silence fell between us.

But I saddened me more. Upon completion of lunch, I was spinning like an arrow to my dear clinic.

II

The last two years still seemed to me better than the first. They were also more liberating and accustomed me to think and act for myself.

I made my first internship in a hospital far enough from the center of Lyon, for three months, I could not go home for lunch.

Miss Harland had to intervene again to my father, so that I could eat at a university canteen where students found themselves and girls like me.

All and all were good friends. The meal was not great, but the atmosphere was so cheerful, cordial, I did not even think that I swallowed. How different the sumptuous and sad dining room where I had spent hours so mortally boring!

The return home, the afternoon, after three months of lunch in the canteen, seemed all the more painful.

But my mind was made up: I did not want to stay home! As soon as I got my second degree, I'd like some of my friends, I would go to the hospital school where you could be inside and where I would dwell, in turn, as a counselor.

This is what I explained, with courage, my father, the day after the last review, I had passed.

He listened with his cold air and when I had finished, he said in a voice without reply:

- I will not give my consent to this new fantasy.

- Why would you refuse me, Father, that you have given me so far? I said, making a big effort to overcome my shyness.

- Until now, it was studies under the direction of Miss Harland I know. These studies liked you and I did not want to deprive you. Because it amused you to get that degree, I let you do. A girl from our world can pass exams, even more or less bizarre, but it is unacceptable that it uses diplomas obtained. You will not be a nurse in a hospital.

He had that bitter and sardonic smile I had seen him sometimes and he exclaimed:

- Nurse ... The daughter of a judge in civil court in Lyon! Nurse! ... Do you see that!

I was terrified of life that awaited me. Fear of this solitary existence gave me the courage to discuss his refusal.

- Father, there is nothing to do with that! This is my vocation; I want to be a nurse.

- Your vocation! if he cried violently shrugging. Do you even know what that is, poor little, a vocation?

He had risen.

Leaning both hands on the edge of his desk, dominating me with all his height, he said slowly emphasizing each syllable:

- Your vocation is to stay in your father's house and wait for the husband to choose you. At any other absurd project, I will say no! no and no!

I felt despair and fierce revolt rising within me. I had to bite the lips in order not to miss any disrespectful word for one who was still my father.

- Never ! never ! He repeated angrily.

I had the courage not to answer anything and leave the paternal office without turning his head.

Outside, I burst into tears ...

*

The situation had become very difficult for me.

After the scene I had with my father, I went to see Miss Harland.

I decided, since I was going to have twenty-one two weeks later, waiting for the date of my majority and override the uncompromising defense that was made to me.

I spoke to Miss Harland who nodded and advised me such disobedience subsidiary.

She could not know how his father's house was intolerable for me and she tried to convince me to give up my project.

- Consider, my dear child, to the situation where you put yourself vis-a-vis your father this will be a complete break, your two separate lives, his lonely old age and your own future compromise!

- It was he who asked for it, I say with a heavy heart. I ask only love my father, but he rejects my love as well as my desire dedication.

- All this is very sad, my poor little one, and I see no practical way to fix things. Personally, I cannot help you against your father. Moreover, it is impossible, now, to go to the hospital where you wish to enter, there is no one place instructor available, it assured me yesterday.

It was the final blow, and I almost lose heart. I pulled myself together, however, as my desire to work was great. Anything was better than life in this dark house, near a man so hard that did not have a father's heart.

- I'll think, 'I said with apparent calm.

My thoughts were all doing. To act, however, I had to wait the famous majority.

Children who live happily with their parents do not know what the word "majority" is liberating hopes and thoughts for those who are oppressed. I write this in 1916, but I'm sure that in fifteen or twenty years, younger generations will experience less cruel and less tyrannical filial obligations.

I was absolutely determined to go to Paris; Also, during the fortnight that I had to wait, I mustered my sly little luggage and I took all my arrangements for departure.

I had a little money well for me, my father with me, during my childhood, given weekly small sums which I had not touched.

Miss Harland was sorry to my resolve when I briefed.

She could not openly give me reason against my father; which did not prevent to regret my being reduced to the end of a clandestine departure.

However, not wanting to leave me to my own, she wrote me a word of warm recommendation to the director of a Franco-American hospital she knew particularly, and it was the latter who gave me a place, little after my arrival in Paris.

*

Before you move away from Lyon and the house had passed my childhood, I wrote this letter to my father:

" My father,

"I have to leave with a heavy heart to leave without your consent. I'm sorry to be obliged to do so against your desire, but I'm afraid to continue to live the useless life I lead in Lyon.

"I'm twenty-one, and I observe you respect, I am old to have my fate. My greatest desire is to create me a situation that allows me to be sufficient for my needs. I would have been glad you facilitated me the means. Yet you refuse to help me. I can sacrifice my life or what I consider a vocation driving at your will.

"I'm leaving faithfully, without a second thought, in a blameless purpose of honest work. I know what I owe the honor of our name and I swear that you will never have to be ashamed of that which is and will remain your devoted and loving daughter.

"I kiss you hard, my father, I will never forget you.

"Valentine. "

I added the address of the hospital where I was working in Paris, then I left.1

*

I was installed for several days already, in my new role at the Franco-American hospital. My service I liked. Around me, everything was new, clean and well organized.

We had even planned for nurses a special kind of school where we had our nice rooms and a meeting place to chill hours of rest.

Everything would have been fine if I had not remained anxious to receive a response from my father to my farewell letter.

Despite its hardness and indifference he had always shown me, it was my father and I was not entirely detached from it.

I watched, for it, the divine commandment that says, "Honor thy father and thy mother. "There is no question of love, yet instinctively I loved my father and I wanted to believe her.

On the other hand, his judge in civil court functions made him a respectable man; his opinion was therefore not indifferent to me.

Finally, some austere and rigid that my father would have been, I had him for having lacked nothing materially since my birth and my gratitude was acquired him for this favor.

It is for these reasons that I expected his answer with such anxiety.

As the days passed and I received nothing, I resolved to write to Miss Harland. I could count on enough affection to ask to see my father, to tell him about me to explain my position perfectly regular and honorable, and I especially wanted her to tell me what he thought of my departure.

This excellent person replied a few days later. She did not hesitate a moment to make that visit, however, was a real chore.

It is obvious that it was even more painful to have to convey to me the words of my father.

From the first words of Miss Harland, the judge had stopped.

- Do not talk to me about this, please, miss, 'he said coldly. This event is the misfortune and shame of my life. Please spare me any allusion to it.

And as this young lady, not discouraged, appealed to the natural feelings of a father for his daughter, he exclaimed in a terrible voice:

- I have no daughter! She died for me! And as that still dares to take that title never return to Lyons; my house and my heart to him forever closed.

Miss Harland concluded his letter with loving and encouraging words, intended to soften this new shot that was my father's harshness.

But she could not spare me in full force and I felt a deep pain.

For several days this thought obsessed me painfully ...

It was from that moment that I took to heart, not only to maintain my independence from my own work, but also to raise me, a monitoring effort to a good, if not brilliant situation.

I took the project to learn medicine and get my doctorate.

Being a nurse was not enough anymore. I wanted, financially and socially, I create an important position.

My ambition now demanded that my father was later forced to admit that I was joy and glory of his life ... and not his shame, as he liked to believe now.

Meanwhile, I documented my best on these studies I wanted to take. And, as the school year had begun and that I could not hope to make a registration until the following year, I braced myself through hard work between my hour infirmary.

If I insist on this project, which was not to realize is that it was still a great influence on the events that were to follow and fill my life until I write this.

It was these studies that put me in touch with a young doctor at the hospital, the surgeon's assistant. And with him, I had to know the main actor of my life drama.

By chance, in fact, that one day I met Dr. Maudoire, discussed above, in a public library.

Naturally, we exchanged a few words. He advised me, in particular, the choice of books. I came to tell him of my plans. He became interested and this created a good camaraderie between us link.

From that moment, he guided me in my studies, showing me books that I had to consult and accompanying me to the Faculty library where I would not have had access alone.

I appreciated greatly this male friendship that remained fraternal.

René Maudoire had no claim to be "pretty boy." It was even rather ugly; but very smart, very loving his job, he did not think of flirting.

I thought nothing more.

Our meetings were also quite rare and almost always occurred by chance.

Thus, a time, an output day I took advantage of my freedom to go see a book in Sainte-Geneviève, I met on the Boulevard Saint-Michel, Rene Maudoire who stopped to say hello.

He was not alone.

A big blond man accompanied him.

The assistant introduced him. I heard a foreign-sounding name I misunderstood that day: Gys of Wriss.

The friend of Maudoire bowed with perfect ease and had placed his lips on the fingertips I handed him.

Then how is solicited a favor, he invited us to take some refreshment in one of the boulevard cafes.

I must say that this double gesture of courtesy subdued me. The newcomer turned out man in the world and I found deeply sympathetic.

For his part, he seemed quietly pleased that I accepted his invitation.

This first meeting, though brief, gave me a great impression.

Later, I was to meet Gys of Wriss increasingly often.

I could hardly see René Maudoire without this friend; it was to believe that they were inseparable. Later, I happened to come across one of Wriss my way.

The random-he was only responsible? ... I think not.