Ethel Watts Mumford

“ A few moments later, the dowager duchess requested admittance to the presence of the new mistress of the manor.
Claire shivered slightly, as she lay on the great carved bed with its hangings of embroidered Genoese velvet, and, drawing her lacy négligée about her, struggled to a sitting position. "If she will pardon—will pardon—!" she stammered. The slow tap of the ebony cane and the heavy step outside her door made her tremble anew. In her weakness, she feared this haughty woman of ice and iron, as she had feared no one else in her life. ”

“ There, in her great throne-chair, she sat down, her heart dead within her shrunken breast.
"No one will ever know," mured the dowager duchess. "My son's sons have been spared a low-born mother—God rest her soul!" ”

“ Omphale and Hercules stared out unseeing from the tapestry, the gargoyles of the carved beams grimaced, unobservant.
"None can ever guess," said the dowager duchess, slowly. She sought at her side the silver chatelaine with its trousseau of keys, which had been worn for generations by the ladies of Vantôme. She fitted and turned the key in the ancient box, threw back the lid, and looked within. There lay various packets wrapped in soft silk; one, larger and flatter than the others, she withdrew daintily. ”

“ I know it is useless, I know that in this age all that is thought of is money, all that gives position is extravagance. I belong to the relegated generation, with which honor and breeding is the only seal of superiority. I cannot accept this mésalliance as you would have me.
"She is a sick child, mother."
"She is an intruder in the house of your forefathers." The dowager duchess rose, leaning heavily upon her ebony cane. "Your hand, Raoul." ”

“ With stately grace she turned to the intruder. "My son's wife should be welcome to Vantôme."
The girl bowed gracefully, but the flush that mantled her cheeks revealed her sense of the grudging reception accorded her.
The dowager duchess regarded her daughter-in-law fixedly, noting every line of the frail, fashionably gowned figure, every detail of the small, oval face, with its wide-set, blue eyes, and crown of iridescent black hair. The girl shivered slightly.
"You are cold," the dowager duchess suggested. "Raoul, there is wine and cake upon the table. The Autumn winds are chill." ”

“ All these treasures, hers! treasures heavy with the weight of centuries—actual, tangible links in the great human chain of history, bringing the past here to her hands—hands born and grown in that far, new world, where the wheel of Fortune whirled a hundred years of concentrated living into as many days. Something of the awe of mighty heights and depths grew in her soul, leaving her shrinking upon the brink of eternities of time and life. ”

“ The gloves of Catharine de' Medici, Queen of France, wife of Charles IX., given by her to Jeanne de Gae, second wife of Michael de Vantôme. These gloves were poisoned by Conotelli, the celebrated alchemist, who accompanied Catharine when, as Princess of Florence, she was married to the son of Francis I. To put one on is said to be certain and painless death, leaving no trace whatsoever. ”