The last day arrived, a bright showery Sunday in April. I was to leave early next morning. Lord Tawborough would see me as far as Southampton.
At my last Breaking of Bread many allusions were made in prayer to my departure for foreign lands. If I was not going there avowedly in His service, none the less let His service be my chief aim and effort. I worshipped devoutly. This might be the last Lord's Supper of which I should ever partake. The Lord's People in France were the merest handful; there were not more than four Meetings in all the Empire, of which not one, Grandmother had ascertained, was in Paris or the north or any part I was likely to be near. And I might be abroad three or four years without a holiday in England.
Now that at last my hopes and ambitions were being fulfilled, sadness and regret were uppermost. The old life I knew so well, the present in which I had still one day to live, already seemed far behind me. I looked back in the anticipatorily retrospective fashion of all who live in the future; and to whom, living in the future, the present is always already the past.
Already Bear Lawn was the past, decked with a pathos that as the present it had never worn.
The last dinner was a goodly spread: a roast fowl, a hog's pudding, and apple dumplings with clotted cream. Glory and Salvation were invited. The latter slobbered noisily of how she would miss me; I realized with a sudden sentimental pang that, after all, it might be true. Glory wept till the tears streamed down her cheeks on to her untidy bodice; I watched with a feeling of guilt for her sorrow and the increasing shamefulness of her blouse.
The last night was full of odd pauses and silences. Aunt Jael kept looking at me and looking away quickly when I looked back. She tried to keep up an appearance ofstoicism and sternness, and knew that she was failing. At the last moment she gave up all pretence. In my emotional mood, she seemed to atone for years of hardness when she turned sharply away from the Book of Proverbs at which her Bible opened—it was real sacrifice—and chose for the nightly portion my 137th Psalm. I thought of that dismal first night at Torribridge so many years ago.
Later on, at my bedside, my Grandmother prayed a long devoted prayer. "Oh Lord Jesus! How my old heart aches when I am sometimes tempted to fear that she may be unworthy of that Saint who sits with Thee, her dear dear mother. Grant that in foreign lands and the cities of the plain she may shun the ungodly and flee from all worldliness and evil. Grant, Oh Lord, that we three may meet together in Thine Own everlasting arms. For Jesus' sake."
Next morning I was up betimes. Mrs. Cheese, red-eyed and tearful, helped me cord my box. "I daun knaw what we shall do without 'ee, my dear. Even the ol' biddy is sorrowful, though she's not enough of a Christian to fancy showin' it."
The last moment came. We had finished breakfast. I was dressed for the journey, and my brass-nailed box was ready in the hall. We awaited the sound of Lord Tawborough's carriage.
Aunt Jael epitomized.
"Well, child, you're at your eighteenth year and you're doing well in life. I'm sure I don't grudge it 'ee. Your poor mother would have been a proud woman to see you going off like this to a good post among fine folk; but don't think as much of folk being fine and grand as she did, poor soul. All is vanity. Keep lowly. Don't let your head be turned because a fine lord is seeing you on your way to a life amid foreign lords and ladies: they're no better than humbler folk before the Lord and not often as good. Profit all you can. Never be ashamed of those who brought you up. Maybe 'twill be three or four years before we see you. A long time when we're old and within sight of the grave. Maybe you'll never see us again."
"Oh no, Aunt Jael!"
"Why not?" said my Grandmother, "'tis as likely as nottrue. Ye know not the day nor the hour." (The door knocker sounded.) "Come kiss me good-bye and remember I shall tell her you're following after. Love the Lord always."
I hold in my mind the last vision of Bear Lawn: Aunt Jael and my Grandmother standing at the gate of Number Eight, Mrs. Cheese behind weeping in the doorway. I turned round in the carriage and waved my hand. I got a last glimpse of my Grandmother and Great-Aunt and saw them turn round and begin to walk back along the garden path. I saw them after they had ceased to see me. That was the real instant of parting.
On the long journey I said little to my companion; wrapped up in myself and my own thoughts. Some of the way I slept. When we got to Southampton docks, and my last Good-bye in England was but a few minutes ahead I remembered with the greater shame and vividness (that throughout the long journey I had forgotten it) to whom it was I owed all the bright prospects before me, how needlessly good and generous he had always been, and how utterly unworthy of his goodness and generosity I was.
"Sir," I said, and my voice was shaky, "I don't know how to thank you for all you have done for me. I've no money, no power, no anything. But if there's anything I can make or send you to remember me by—if there's anything at all I can do—Is there anything?"
"Yes: Kiss me."
He spoke in a low voice. I trembled with sudden emotion and surprise. Then I kissed him on the cheeks, and he kissed me.
There were two old ladies standing near by; "Brother and sister," we overheard one of them say.
"That's it, isn't it?" I said.
He did not reply.
There was one more moment before I had to go on to the boat. I noticed with a new interest—reviewing with staring inquisition every detail of his face—how good and clever and refined and aristocratic he was; how more than all he seemed sad and hankering and lonely. I could not help apprehending after what had happened—but then, no, that was tooabsurd. It was but a natural thing to have asked at a parting.
"Au revoir," he said in a last handshake, "but not Adieu."
It was dusk as we sailed out of Southampton Water. England was a fading piece of purple sky, lying low upon the sea; sprinkled with stars, for the harbour lights were showing. As she faded away I knew that she too belonged to the past.
I went to sleep in my bunk, and awoke in the bright sunshine of France and the future.
There came into view a shining white mansion, massive, square-looking, three-storied, pierced with high windows and covered like a mosaic with newly-painted white Venetian shutters. A dream-house, gleaming against a background of fresh greensward and dark yew-trees. "It is not real," I said half-aloud, and mystery banished disappointment. For I had pictured battlements, towers, drawbridges: had thought that "château" meant "castle."
Nothing that day had been quite real. Perhaps it was the hot spring weather. Or the over-wideawakeness that followed a sleepless night—ah, Channel steamboat, stirrings of body and soul, desperate illness creating more desperate resolves to be good, prayers of "Notthistime, God, and I'll be pure, holy!" renewed with each sickening lurch. Or the inevitable first-day mystery of the foreign land.
I had been met at Havre quay-side by a silent crafty little man in black, with a face like Punch and a head (when with un-English gesture he removed his hat) as smooth and bald as an egg.
"I am François," was all he vouchsafed.
I addressed him in French; he did not seem to understand, shook his head vaguely and made no reply. A ridiculous fear seized me that I did not know French at all, that Miss le Mesurier's lessons had been one mighty sham, false lessons in some goblin tongue.
Or was I dreaming? All the way along the busy quay, amid clamouring porters, gesticulating cabmen, and marionette-like crowds, through unfamiliar streets, and in an unbelievable railway train, a sense of dreaming had persisted.
The carriage drew up in front of the great doorway. François, by signs, explained that he was entrusted with my luggage. A little woman came out on to the steps of the porch to greet me, smiling ingratiatingly. She was a tiny, shrivelled thing, with bulgy eyes and a high recedingforehead ridged with careworn lines, the whole dominated by an enormous nose: a human dormouse dressed in black. Despite its harassed air, the face was kind; her age might be fifty. The housekeeper, I surmised. She shook hands effusively.
"Good day, Mademoiselle, so you are here."
"Yes, Madame."
"You are tired. Come upstairs. I will show you your room."
My relief at finding that the French I had learnt was real after all, was less strong than a sudden feeling of fright—religious fright, for God speaks only English—before the blasphemous oddness of the thing. After all, my conversations with Miss le Mesurier had only been for conversation's sake: by way of learning the trick. But this real talking, this conducting of life's actual business in the foreign jargon!—(I prayed swiftly to know. "Little fool," replied God,in French.)
I followed the little old lady into a lofty hall, very cool after the heat outside, a cold and stately place. Doors opened out of it on every side, surmounted with antlers. On the walls I saw armour, old swords, banners. We mounted a broad staircase with walls covered in tapestries. A mighty staircase. Majesty filled me.
"Here is your bedroom," said the little lady, "and this door leads through to your study or boudoir, call it what you like. I hope you will like them both."
"They are beautiful!" I cried, and my heart beat faster as I surveyed the bright bedchamber, the bed-hangings in rose-coloured chintz, the elegant boudoir with book-case and writing-desk and walls covered with portraits and miniatures and little racks for cups and vases—all for me. My heart exulted in contrasts. Oh, now I was a lady!
"You will want to wash your hands. I shall wait for you. I am so glad you have come. Your presence—that is your arrival—it gives me pleasure.... Now come downstairs to luncheon to be introduced to us all. They will be so delighted to see you, dear Mademoiselle, my daughters—"
"Then you are—"
"Madame de Florian."
"The Countess! Oh a thousand pardons!"
What an un-Brethren-like phrase. And what a bad beginning.
She sniggered, was immensely tickled. "Ha! Ha! You thought I was a servant."
"Oh no! Not really—"
"Oh yes you did. And that does not surprise me. My daughters have always told me I look like an old family servant: this will amuse them so. Now come along to luncheon. One thing," she whispered confidentially as she opened the bedroom door, "before you begin with my daughters we must have a little talk together about them both, and what each had best read with you. Ah, they are so different, Elise and Suzanne: one would not think them sisters. What anxiety it all gives me!"
And she knitted her brows and half closed her eyes in an expression of exaggerated care I thought more comical than sad.
The Countess led the way down the great staircase. In place of a door the dining-room had high hanging curtains. We passed through them into by far the largest room I had ever seen. The floor was of polished wood; there were no rugs or carpets. In each distant corner was a complete suit of armour; all along the walls stood massive and stately pieces of furniture. In the middle of this huge apartment, like an island surrounded by an ocean of bare floor, was a table at which were seated four persons: two young ladies, a gentleman and a little old woman.
All four stared at me with unconcealed interest. Introductions left me in a maze; I was too self-conscious to hear names, far too full of the fact that I was being introduced to them to concentrate on their being introduced to me. Then for the next few minutes I was too busy trying to eat and drink aristocratically, acquiring slyly the new ritual of forks and spoons, posing modestly for five pairs of eyes, to hazard my own stare-round. Of the conversation, which was conducted almost exclusively by the Countess and her younger daughter Suzanne, and which concerned some peasant marriage in the district, I found after the first few moments that I understood almost everything. The food was as deliciousas it was unfamiliar. There was an omelette with rich little crusts in it, and a venison-stew with olives.
Towards the end of the meal I found courage to take the offensive and look round. With pretence of unawareness that was pitiful to see, all immediately arranged themselves to be gazed at: except the elder girl Elise, who faced me with equal eye.
At the head of the table sat the Countess, full of asides to the butler, and peering remorselessly at everybody's plate. When you took a portion of a dish she watched anxiously, to appraise quantity.
On her right, nearly opposite me, sat a tall dark gentleman. With his pointed little beard, suave voice and exaggerated manners, I decided he was a villain: a true French villain. I disliked him at once: his eyes told me he knew it, and they reciprocated. His hard eyes (though dark instead of blue), identical beard (though black instead of yellow), treacly eyes and cat-like gesture, all reminded me of Uncle Simeon. I soon learnt that his name was de Fouquier; he was a cousin of the late Count's and steward for the family estates. Like the Count, he had played some part in the coup d'état which had placed the reigning Emperor on the throne. He spent most of the year at the Château, living as one of the family.
Next to him, and immediately opposite me was my principal charge, Mademoiselle Suzanne: a big healthy young woman, a few months younger than myself, but a year or two older in appearance. She was fair-haired, big-featured and bright-eyed. A large mouth with full red lips proclaimed her sister to Maud—and daughter to Eve. She was lively, kind and perhaps stupid. She was always laughing.
At the end of the table, facing the Countess and immediately on my left, sat Mademoiselle Elise, the elder daughter. She was unhealthily pale; her eyes were fixed-looking, with dark rims underneath, as though she hardly slept. The oddest feature was the forehead, high and of a marble whiteness that made the blue veins stand out. There was something cross and soured in her expression: also something miserable that reminded me of myself—the first condition of sympathy.
Finally, beside me, and on the Countess' left, sat a wizened little woman, a tinier edition of the tiny Countess, butsallower, uglier and sharper-featured: ferret rather than dormouse. A pair of enormous blue spectacles enabled her to observe without being observed. She was the Countess' lady-companion. Her name, absurdly enough, was Mademoiselle Gros.
The plainness and ordinariness of them all was what struck me most. I had pictured stately and distinguished persons—grand, noble, French—and here was a company quite as ugly and plebeian as the Meeting. No one fulfilled my notion of aristocrats! No one resembled the Stranger.
After luncheon, Mademoiselle Suzanne came up to my rooms to help me unpack. She prattled ceaselessly, in English, which she spoke well, though I found reason to correct her every few moments and thus to begin my duties.
"I shall like you, I know. I hated Miss Jayne: that's our governess when we were little: she was very ugly and severe. I teased her all I dared. Once I kicked her, but I was only nine. Mademoiselle Soyer, who taught us last, was really French, though her mother was English, so she doesn't count. Our other governesses were all French; but" (quickly) "you are not a governess of course; you are to be a friend. I am sure you will like it with us: You can do whatever you want: ride—you do ride?—go to picnics and excursions; there are very pretty places near here. I am so glad you are not what I feared. Your cousin[!] Lord Tawborough told Mamma you were so clever. And some English women, you know—you know what I mean. But we shall be friends, real friends, I know it."
"Do you?" thought I. "You are friendly and kind, but not at all like that unknown thing I hoped so hard to find, a real friend of my own age and sex, whom I could be free with, confide in—not love, for that there is only Robbie—who could sometimes take the place of the Other Me in my talks and visions, who could end the loneliness."
She paused in her babyish fiddling with my possessions. "What are you thinking about? You are not listening."
"Oh nothing," I said, a shade guiltily, for I was taken with one of my intuitive panics: Suppose she had guessed my thoughts? But the big eyes were staring at me with nothing beyond vague curiosity. To make amends, I setto and tattled in the liveliest and worldliest fashion I knew.
"Oh how droll you are, and what good times we shall have together."
Dinner (no Supper now: I was a lady!) found me already much more at ease. I corrected some mistake in Mlle. Suzanne's pronunciation, and that set the table going. While Weather is the conversational shield and buckler of the English or of the French against themselves, against each other it is the oddness and madness of the other's tongue.
"Heavens!" cried Suzanne. "That makes five ways I know of to pronounceoughin English. It is mad, absurd."
"There are seven ways at least," I boasted.
"There's nothing like that in our language. French is so simple."
"Oh? What about the irregular verbs?"
"You've got them too, quite as many."
"But they're not so irregular as yours: in fact, most of them aren't really irregular at all!"
"Oh, not really irregular at all!Am,be,is,are: orgo,went,been; aren't they irregular enough for you?"
"And the spelling, oh dear!" put in the Countess....
This sort of thing is as gay and unfailing as a fountain. Thanks to the good oddities of my mother-tongue, on my very first evening in this strange land I was beginning to feel at home. Certainly I talked more than at any meal in the eighteen years before. Everywhere else I had been a child, a chattel: a thing to be bullied and silenced (Aunt Jael), tortured (Uncle Simeon), exhorted (the Saints), prayed for (Grandmother). The new unconstraint exhilarated me; my natural bent for talking came into its own. Here I was listened to, expected to shine, deferred to. I was clever: I was amusing: I was a lady!
Alone in my cosy bedroom, with the lamp lit, I reviewed my first impressions. How good it all was: comfort, ease, dainty food, fine surroundings; kindliness, deference; freedom, importance. Luxurious liberty filled me: after eighteen years of prison I had escaped. But would things continue as well as they had begun? Or were there new perils ahead? Then Conscience pricked. Is it right, this life of ease, this new atmosphere of careless liberty: is it of the Lord? What placehas religion here? Where is God? Has any one of these fine folk spoken, or even thought, of holy things during one moment of this day? HAVE YOU?
It was late. I opened my Bible, and turned, involuntarily, inevitably, to the one hundred and thirty-seventh psalm. I read it through aloud. None of the old emotion, none of the old misery returned; as I read I tried almost to force it back. Where had fled the wretchedness of that other first night of a new life, in the dreary chamber at Torribridge? Where was the desperate luxurious loneliness of that time? Had the fatal atmosphere of France, the Papist Babylon, already in an hour magically completed a change that the easier times of the past few years had begun? Was I deprived of my oldest privilege, my misery? Had I become unworthy of unhappiness? I contrasted myself bitterly with the unhappy Mary of seven years back. Ease was poisoning my soul. I dwelt with perverse envy on the wretched little girl of that other night, and then fell to picturing all the unhappiness that had framed my life, from the long agony of my mother before she bore me to the daily oppression of the years that followed. Soon I was shedding tears of pity for my unhappy past self: weeping, if not for Zion. (More and more, as the contrasts of my new life developed, I indulged in this glad unhappiness of sentimental backward-looking, mimicked and dramatized the sincerity of my old child's misery, wallowed in retrospective self-pity, cried amid present ease: "Ah, what a sad lifewasmine!") That I could weep for it as past showed me how wide and sudden was the gulf between the new life and the old. I resolved to widen it.
Already a new person—an empty, a surface Mary, of whose existence within me I had sometimes had half-realized and swiftly-vanishing notions—seemed to have sapped the fortress of my soul, to have assumed command of "Me": a person with the same brain, the same will, the same body, but another soul, or no soul. My brain decided to stifle for a while the old Mary, to let this emptier, ease-fuller personality be all myself. Then at the end of a space of time, I should know which was the stronger, which was the realler Me. I never doubted but that I should be free to make my choice.
I chose my Resolutions carefully, prayed them aloud, put them on paper, sealed them in time-honoured envelope:—
(1) I will cease all visions and daydreams.(2) I will abandon all magic tricks, numbers and hopes.(3) I will play with none of my Terrors: Hell, Satan, Eternity.(4) I will not brood. I will fight my distrust of happiness, my evil instinct that for every moment of pleasure the Lord will make me pay to the uttermost farthing.(5) I will seek none of the ecstasies of religion; not try to experience the Rapture, nor dwell overmuch on holy things. Resting from a too great pleasure in God, at the end of the period I am setting myself I may find myself nearer to Him. (A wise experiment, whispered a Voice: perhaps God's, perhaps the Devil's.)(6)Only, I will read His Word daily, and have for every moment the motto "What would He do?"(7) Except at Christmas only, I will not think of Robbie. If at the end of the time, he is as clear and close as ever, I shall know myself and him better, just as with God (5).ALL THESE THINGS, for the rest of this year 1866, eight months and more [precisely thirty-seven weeks I noticed with a twinge of emotion which was itself an involuntary breach of (2)], I do, with God's help, here and now RESOLVE.M. L.
(1) I will cease all visions and daydreams.
(2) I will abandon all magic tricks, numbers and hopes.
(3) I will play with none of my Terrors: Hell, Satan, Eternity.
(4) I will not brood. I will fight my distrust of happiness, my evil instinct that for every moment of pleasure the Lord will make me pay to the uttermost farthing.
(5) I will seek none of the ecstasies of religion; not try to experience the Rapture, nor dwell overmuch on holy things. Resting from a too great pleasure in God, at the end of the period I am setting myself I may find myself nearer to Him. (A wise experiment, whispered a Voice: perhaps God's, perhaps the Devil's.)
(6)Only, I will read His Word daily, and have for every moment the motto "What would He do?"
(7) Except at Christmas only, I will not think of Robbie. If at the end of the time, he is as clear and close as ever, I shall know myself and him better, just as with God (5).
ALL THESE THINGS, for the rest of this year 1866, eight months and more [precisely thirty-seven weeks I noticed with a twinge of emotion which was itself an involuntary breach of (2)], I do, with God's help, here and now RESOLVE.
M. L.
On the envelope I wrote in capitals "Very Private" in English and "Personnel" in French, added "April 17th, 1866" and signed "M. L."—the death-warrant of Mary I, proclamation from the throne of Mary II. And I undressed, and slept like a lady.
The Countess cornered me next morning for her "little talk," conducting me to her own particular apartment. Mademoiselle Gros was present. She always was, I soon found: a familiar spirit rather than a companion. She sat on a low chair knitting, and if her eyes, or rather goggles, were never raised, I could see that her ears were drinking everything in. The Countess, who spoke in a kind of loud whisper, seemed almost oblivious of me, as one repeating her thoughts aloud to herself: I was merely a good atmosphere in which to recite her woes.
Suzanne, you know. A mere child, good-natured, impulsive—like her father—not clever, but with a will of her own and at times a hot temper—like her father. She gave no real trouble: yet caused her mother many anxieties: how, was not stated. Elise; ah that was a different matter! She was intelligent, fond of study, with a practical head for affairs and money. But so self-centred, so secretive; and so sharp-tongued, so undaughterly when reproved! And in her sullen way, far more obstinate even than her sister. She could never bemadeto do anything: one had given up trying long ago....
"Ah Mademoiselle, if you but knew. It is not easy, to be an old woman alone in the world with two young daughters. They are all I have. I hope they will marry well, but rich husbands are not easy to find, when the girls are poor. We are poor, you know."
"Poor, Madame?" I cried, "with this great château?"
"Becauseof this great château, Mademoiselle. You cannot know how expensive it is to keep up. Expenses are always going up, and rents and farms are always going down. Things are not what they were. Elise will succeed to this place, and to the little money we have. It is not enough; the only thing is for her to find a husband rich enough to spend money on the estate. But she is so strange, so difficult; mocks at the idea of marrying; declares she hates all men—isit not horrible? Says that if, by any impossible chance, she ever did marry, it would be just whom she fancies, rich as a king or poor as a rat. There is no other girl in France like her. It is unbelievable. For Suzanne, too, a good marriage is important: but I fear thedotI can give her is not big enough to secure the sort of husband I want. You see, Mademoiselle, what anxieties a mother has."
Suddenly she woke up and seemed to become aware I was a conscious being. "You are surprised I talk to you so freely? You are young, I know, but so grave, so English, so wise; I feel you will influence my children for the good. You will help me, dear young Mademoiselle, will you not? You will be my ally?" (This word with a snigger, as though trying to pretend she did not mean it.) "And then English is such a sensible thing to study, so useful an accomplishment in Society. Perhaps I will look through the books you read together—though I know you would choose nothing unsuitable—if ever I get time. Oh dear! We are so glad you are here. Our first impression is delightful. Remember you are not a governess but a friend."
"You are too kind, Madame. You are all very good to me. I always knew I should like the French, I have always said so to myself."
"Now really? I cannot truthfully return the compliment—promise me you will not take offence—though I have always liked individual English people I have met. My family have always been fighting your countrymen. Oh dear, I am always interrupted."
This was in response to a few suggestive throat-clearings from Mademoiselle Gros. "Time for you to go into Caudebec for the shopping, is it? Why, it is barely nine o'clock: don't worry me so, you have plenty of time. No, no" (looking at her watch), "It is gone half-past, you must hurry off at once. Why couldn't you remind me sooner? Here is the list—don't lose it—and here are fifty francs—No, you will need sixty. And don't go forgetting again to call at Lebrun's and pay him his account. I will write about the other matter, so say nothing. No, you had better just say—no, after all, say nothing. Here are the three hundred francs; three hundred francs—it is terrible."
"Now," as the dwarf-like creature slunk away, "where was I, dear Mademoiselle? Oh yes: my father was in the Navy, and fought with Villeneuve at Trafalgar, while my husband and his relatives were all in the Army; his father, the famous Count de Florian—the girls' grandfather—was at Waterloo, serving as a general under the great Emperor himself. Trafalgar, Waterloo: what more would you have? But then English is so useful, it is spoken everywhere: there is England with all her colonies, and the Americans speak English too, don't they? The Court Ladies all talk it, and our best families. So when the girls were quite tiny, I got them an English governess, a Miss Jayne; sensible, but very harsh, and notquitea lady. When they were older, I looked about for a young English lady to perfect them. Then our good English friend, Lord Tawborough, told me of a young cousin of his, who would suit perfectly. 'Protestant?' I asked him, for after all religion is important, is it not? 'Yes,' he replied, 'as you know nearly all of us are; and a devout one too. But of course she would never dream of trying to influence your daughters!' You wouldn't, Mademoiselle, would you?"
"Oh, no! Madame," I replied, breaking a lifetime's vows.
"Naturally not. You are a good Protestant, we are good Catholics. But there is tolerance, is there not?"
"Yes," huskily. The new philosophy affected my voice.
"I knew you would think like that. The best way is for you never to refer to religion at all, don't you agree?"
"Yes, Madame," denying for the third time. And immediately in the ears of my spirits, the cock crew. I flushed. Madame stared, wondered, and said nothing.
I sought to turn the subject. "How did you first meet Lord Tawborough?" I enquired. "I should be much interested to hear."
"Has he never told you? Well, he was introduced to us by one of my dear husband's friends, another Englishman, a cousin of his; a much older man, whom my husband knew through friends of the family in Paris. So distinguished too, with a head of perfectly white hair, and so well-groomed; the perfect type of English gentleman. He lived in France. I think he didn't get on very well with Lord Tawborough, had quarrelled with the latter's father or something like that. Thelast time I saw Lord Tawborough, he hadn't seen him for years; I think he still lives somewhere or other in France. So distinguished, though pious with it: a Protestant, of course, but a perfect gentleman."
"Which cousin, I wonder? Was he married?"
"He had been, I believe, but his wife was dead. She had treated him shamefully, I heard, and finally ran away. I never quite found out, you know; these things are sometimes hard to discover, aren't they? One day we may meet again; like all my dear husband's friends, he has a standing invitation to the Château. Poor Monsieur Traies, I wonder what has become of him."
I could not hide my extreme emotion, and for a second my brain was too numb to invent a pretext.
"Oh Madame," I cried faintly, "I feel ill all of a sudden," and I rushed from the room, and upstairs to my bedroom.
Hewas in France. I might meet him in this very house. It was not the coincidence which affected me, but the suddenness with which an old vision had become a near possibility. Nature and habit were stronger than last night's Resolution, and pacing about my room I rehearsed in hectic detail all the mad alternative ways in which the meeting would take place, the long-planned dénouement be achieved.
By luncheon I had calmed down and could pass the sudden sickness off as a turn I often had when tired.
"Fatigues of the journey," sympathized the Countess.
Next day I began my duties. The program was an hour or two's Conversation with Suzanne, followed by Reading with Elise. From the first day the former was nothing more (or less) than a chat, sometimes slanderous, mostly frivolous, always friendly: developing my golden talent for tattle, and in the idlest and surest fashion perfecting Suzanne's English. We became the best of companions.
Elise began by giving me a fright. "I love your poets," she said in her precise plaintive English, "Shakespeare best of all, though" (proudly) "very few French people do. We will read his plays together. I have read most of them, but you will know them far better. I should like to begin with either Macbeth or Othello, my two favourites. Which do you advise?"
I had never heard of either.
"You see me colouring," I laughed nervously. "You have guessed: I am a bit ashamed of not knowing my Shakespeare as well as I can see you do."
The half-lie saved me. It most intimately flattered her vanity: that she, the French girl, should be thought to know an English poet better than I. No variety of self-content is more delicious than that which fills a foreigner when she can soar over the natives in knowledge of their own land.
"You are too modest," said Elise. "Now which of those two plays shall we begin with?"
I had clean forgotten one title, and was not sure of repeating the other correctly. "Which doyouthink? It is you who should choose," I returned generously. At all costs she must repeat one of the names.
"Macbeth then. I think it is the finer."
"Yes, Macbaith," I agreed, imitating her pronunciation as closely as I could. "Perhaps you would lend me your copy. Reading it through would"—I recoiled from "refresh my memory"—"would be useful. I'll read it over tonight. The Countess won't mind my reading in my room?"
"Your room is yours to do what you like in. We all do what we like here; I hope you'll do the same."
So that night the bedroom of a French Château saw me make the acquaintance of the greatest of my fellow-countrymen, of multitudinous seas and perfumes of Araby, and of a theme new in print only: a woman's vaulting ambition.
Reading, in fact, by myself or with Elise, became my chief distraction. Elise's sour face held no sour looks for me. I would watch the high blue-veined forehead and the sad white face as we were reading together. For the first time—with the one exception of Lord Tawborough, in whom also intelligence and purity, in their manlier setting, were the qualities that attracted me—I found myself admiring some one, acknowledging frankly to myself that here was something better than I. Her kindness, her sadness, her literary enthusiasm all heightened the effect; and in the ardour of books and discussion sprang up my first real friendship. It ripened slowly, for she was as proud as I. We did not wallow in confidences, knowing that at the right moment they could come.
My private reading was voracious, sharpened by years of unconscious hunger. I read novels, poetry and travel, chiefly in French: one subject became an enthusiasm, the history of France, and one part of that subject a mania.
Of the glory of this world I knew nothing. It burst on me now in one vision, one shape, one glad triumphant name: the name and shape and vision of France. I devoured every map, every picture, every book of geography or history the library contained. I learnt to know the living soul and lilting name of each river and city and province, from this Normandy of Châteaux and cider-orchards and Vikings and churches to Provence loved of the sun and limned by the Midland Sea; from fervid Gascony to brave Lorraine. I loved the victorious shape: that stands firm on the straight Pyrenees, turns a proud Breton shoulder to the wide Atlantic, and bears on the breast of old Alsace the swing and swerve of the whole eastward Continent. Best of all I loved the story: Gauls and Romans, Troubadours and Crusaders, Kings and Dauphins, Huguenots and Leaguers, lilies and eagles, laughter and war. I see them always as from some hilltop, a tented and bannered multitude spread on a vast twilight plain beneath me, reaching to the utmost horizon of history.
Above them all, in the highest heaven, there shines a Star. It is Napoleon.
I lived every moment from the island-birth to the island death, from Ajaccio to the Rock; knew the emotion of each time so well that I believed I could have been Napoleon, came to feelI had beenNapoleon, and could revel in retrospective megalomania with no betrayal of Resolution: for I was weaving no futures for myself, but living another's past. Another's, yet mine. For as I read I found that Irememberedthe lonely childhood, the sour school-days; the hopes of '96, the springtide of Italy; the summertide of glory; Austerlitz, Notre Dame, the crown of battles and the crown of gold; with God's revenge for good days gone:—the wintertime of Russia; the defeat, the disaster, the desertion; the giant self-pity of Longwood. Ah, those were great days. And now I was Mary.
For a long time I thought the Nephew ridiculous. The pictures I saw everywhere portrayed a kind of sleepy UncleSimeon, bloated, heavier, stupider, but not less crafty. But I kept my thoughts to myself. For the family were staunch adherents of the reigning Emperor.
Then, one day, Elise gave me a book describing his younger days. Again I found that I remembered. I was Louis-Napoleon too.Hewas the great Napoleon. We were all one. In the world there was only one Person. Every one was every one else. My heart—God—once more I had nearly reached the Mystery....
He was a real Napoleon, this living King, who, when as a little child they tore him away from the Tuileries (when the uncle fell and was abandoned), cried out aloud in rage prophetic: "I shall come back," and through madness and mockery and passion and prison—came back.
If books were my most personal pleasure, I settled down to enjoy every phase of the new easeful life: fine bedroom and boudoir (I would exult aloud that they were mine); perfect servants who spared you cleaning your own boots, making your bed and folding your clothes; bright days in the park with Suzanne and her chatter; rides, drives, picnics; excursions to Jumièges, to Caudebec, to neighbouring mansions, to old Rouen, jewelled with wonderful papist churches. A "No English after dinner" rule of the Countess' enabled me to improve my French almost to perfection, and this acquisition of another tongue contributed to the change in my character: words make thoughts rather than thoughts words: language is the lord of life. Soon this new insouciant way of treating life, which but a few weeks earlier would have been incomprehensible, appeared the natural one. I forgot love, and God, and misery. Mary II had won. Bear Lawn became distant and half-real. A thin bridge of memory, which Resolution forbade me to traverse, spanned the widening gulf between the two lives. The very intenseness of the old days was the reason they so soon became unreal. I had learnt to live each instant in over-intense and concentrated fashion: I could not do it in the present and past as well.
None of my minor fears were realized. I had thought my humble upbringing might make itself seen; but no, to all and sundry I was announced as "the cousin of a Lord" (lusciously pronouncedlaurrrby the Countess) and taken for grantedas a young English gentlewoman of orthodox antecedents. I justified my pleasure by the reflection that it was all literally true, though in my heart I knew that thetrueMe was poor middle-class go-to-Meeting Mary. All my ways were found "so English, so quaint, so Puritan, so clever, so charming." Well-chosen hints of the oddness and rigour of Bear Lawn excited interest, amusement, pity, each in their turn delectable: how it pleased, flattered, touched me! The Clinkers and Aunt Jael became victims in a repertoire, butchered to make a Norman holiday. Nor need I have feared for my table-manners with these French aristocrats who wiped their plates with their bread and supped and squelched and chewed in almost Glorian fashion; while Aunt Jael in hawkiest mood never rivalled the mesmeric stare which Madame la Comtesse de Florian bestowed on other people's plates.
The eternal visualizing was the one habit of old days which I could not completely shake off. My Napoleonizing was one outlet; for the rest, the intrigues and excitements that the next few months were to furnish brusquely stemmed the tide. Stage-manager of a real drama, I had less need to act imaginary ones.
I had soon divined, beneath the lightness, an odd constraint around me. At table there were unpleasant silences, when I could feel that my companions were hostile to each other. I noticed that the Countess, Elise and Suzanne only spoke to me on intimate or serious topics when we were alone. Every talk worth remembering had beenà deux; they were not, I thought, ashamed of me but of themselves, not shy of me but of each other. Of love as I, who had not known it, felt it should be between mother and daughter and sister and sister, the great house held little. Elise alone, I was beginning to discover, had a jealous and passionate regard for her sister, inadequately returned. The Countess' feeling for her daughters, worldly solicitude or whatever it was, contained I believe no particle of real love; she mistrusted them, feared them, and avoided close contact with them, especially with Elise. In return Suzanne ignored while Elise almost despised the mother. Monsieur de Fouquier's position puzzled me. He seemed to be valued as a steward, honouredas a relation, and disliked as a man. Elise mistrusted him. The Countess was frightened of him. Suzanne—I did not know. He was excessively polite to me, but spoke little. At table Ferret-Blue-goggles was silence itself, though alone with the Countess I think she had a good deal to say. All the family showed me uniform kindness, genuine and spontaneous, though after a time I detected method in it too. I felt that each one of them separately—Elise over books, Suzanne during our walks and talks, the Countess in her "as one woman to another" confidences—was bidding for the chief place in my affections; seeking me, as the Countess had put it, as an ally.
I was a valuable piece on the Villebecq chessboard. A hand was stretched forth, and played the opening move.
We were sitting at luncheon one day about the end of the summer.
Suddenly the Countess arose from her seat, erect, pale with fury, pointing at Suzanne.
"Leave the table, wretched vicious girl! Go to your room! And you, Sir"—to Monsieur de Fouquier—"will leave my house without delay."
There was a moment's intense silence. No one moved. All stared.
"Madame—" began de Fouquier suavely.
"Not a syllable! It is not required. Business can be wound up in a few hours; and I do not doubt I shall find a successor who will serve menot less wellthan you. Gentlemanly conduct indeed!—handling and embracing my daughter—"
"Mother"—it was Elise who spoke—"are youquitedemented?" For one who was not a principal she was inexplicably white and hard.
"Quite, I think," rejoined her sister, not at all as though the chief person concerned, but relieved to have a word to echo.
"Wretched girl. You dare deny—?" Here Mademoiselle Gros nudged and whispered. The Countess walked swiftly round the table to her daughter, and snatched at her left arm. "Deny now, will you? Ha! Ha! Look at your wrists; deny if you can."
We all stared. The white finger-pressure of another hand was unmistakable.
"Deny?" cried Suzanne scornfully, "of course I do. He holding my hand under the table! What an idiotic idea, just the sort of idea you would have. Dear me, how horrible if he had! That's what your filthy little spy thinks she saw through her filthy smoked glasses. The liar!"
"Those marks, then, Mademoiselle, if you please"—hermother sneered confidently—"Be so very kind as to explain."
"Those marks, then, Madame, if you please! I suppose you're not my mother, Madame, if you please, and know nothing of the little habit I've always had of sitting with my hands in my lap, with my left wrist clasped in my right hand, my own amorous right hand? I had finished my dessert, and—yes, I admit it—was sitting in that wicked position. And I will again. And, what is more, I won't have you and your accusations. I'm not a baby in long clothes, and I won't be spied on and shrieked at in that mad way. And I'll squeeze my wrist till it bleeds if I choose to."
Too confident, too explanatory. Lying was not in her line. But de Fouquier preserved an unruffled silence. I was not sure. The Countess too was wavering.
Ferret whispered again. "Not true." We all heard.
"Listen, Madame," said Elise, very hard and pale, "there is one person who will leave this house without delay: that little spy. Order her to go at once:Now!", savagely.
"I won't," piped the Countess, "I am mistress in my own house."
"Then I will," and turning to Mademoiselle Gros, "You have just two minutes to leave this table of your own free will, and till tomorrow to relieve the Château of your presence. If not, I'll drag you from the room myself, or ring for the servants to help me." They all cowered (except de Fouquier) before Elise.
"Yes, go I will, my poor Countess," squeaked the creature, trying to make valour appear the better part of discretion. "I can hear your daughters' insults no longer." Out she skedaddled, tap-tap-tapping across the wooden floor in the midst of a momentous silence.
Then Elise turned sharply to her mother. "All you have to do is to apologize humbly to Suzanne and Emile. The whole thing is a mare's nest. Have you ever seen anything before to make you suspect anything of the sort? No, and you know you have not. It is utterly unlike my sister. As to Emile, I know him a good deal better than you do—"
"Evidently"; sneering feebly.
"There's a stupid muddle-headed sneer. You can't have it both ways. If it is me you suspect of love-making with ourcousin, say so openly and withdraw it about Suzanne. Is it proofs you want? Oh, I can produce authentic marks of loving pressure soon enough." She clutched savagely at her own wrist, scratching it with her nails. "There, mother, dear, there is a spot of blood: now you are convinced. I admit all, all. You may shriek 'Wretched, vicious girl' at me till your voice fails you. But one thing you may not, shall not, do. You shall not talk to my sister like that, not if you were my mother ten times over. That is an order. And for a piece of advice only, don't talk quite so preposterously to Emile."
"You are grown very fond of our cousin all of a sudden; with your 'Emile' this and your 'Emile' that. It is rather sudden."
"Oh, no, my dear mamma: it has been a very gradual affair on the contrary: a passion that has been eating my heart out month by month, day by day, hour by hour. Oh Love, Love. I live in it, it is my joy, my life! Oh God, it is cruel!" With a laugh (or sob) she ran from the table, and hurriedly left the room.
Four of us were left. There was a new unpleasant pause. No sign or look passed between Suzanne and de Fouquier. I was moved by the display of raging hate in this peaceful family, and bewildered to know what it might all mean. The Countess was sniffing tearfully, mopping her eyes with a tiny cambric handkerchief.
"No need for that," cried Suzanne sharply. "You have not yet apologized to Emile."
He broke his discreet silence at last, suavely, full of forgiveness. "No, my dear cousin, pray do not talk to your mother like that. 'Tis I who am sorry. It is not Madame's own fault; I have always felt that Mademoiselle Gros was putting false ideas into her mind, poisoning her outlook, playing treacherously on her maternal fears, slandering each one of us. Now she is going, and we shall breathe a purer atmosphere."
Madame continued to sniffle.
"Don't-know-what-to-believe."
Neither Suzanne nor Monsieur de Fouquier gave her any enlightenment, though she looked furtively up first at one and then the other. Then with an appealing "Help me" glanceshe turned in my direction. So, instantly, did the others. "Remember, dear Mademoiselle, that we're friends," was the burden of one look: "Beware, young lady, or we'll be enemies" of the other.
"I think it must all be an unfortunate misunderstanding, Madame," I said. "Personally, I noticed nothing." (Judicial, judicious.)
Here François entered; bald-headed, Punch-faced, beaky-eyed. He looked completely incognizant of the storm that had been raging: exactly as though he had been listening outside the whole time. The united-front-before-servants which we hastened to display would have failed to deceive the dullard which François certainly was not.
Both Suzanne and her mother began eye-signalling "See you after" to me, the more emphatically when each perceived the other. Suzanne first, I decided: she was my friend, and with her I should get nearer the truth of it all. But as we rose from the table, the Countess laid her hand affectionately on my shoulder, and led me, unavoidably, to her boudoir.
Here we found Mademoiselle Gros, already bonneted and shawled. I went over to the window, where my ears drank in a little comedy of pathetic explanation and injured silence; humiliating apology and continued silence, generous proposal of one month's salary, hinted acceptance of three. From the three months' minimum Ferret would not budge; in the Countess' soul fear of a new scene fought an attacking battle against long-entrenched parsimony; fear won—and money passed.
"I will see you have the carriage for the station. The Havre train: you are returning to your relatives there? Good, I will see you again at the moment of departure."
"Thank you, Madame la Comtesse. I will take leave now of mysuccessor." And she held out her wizened claw to me.
"Well, I hope she will be," said the Countess. "You will, dear Mademoiselle, will you not?" she asked, as the door closed upon the other.
"How, Madame? Mademoiselle Gros' successor?"
"Oh, I don't mean as lady's companion, of course, not as herofficialsuccessor." (Nervous snigger.) "For that post I must try to find some one else. It will be difficult: they are all so exacting nowadays, so unreliable. Oh, it will be difficult. I meant, would you succeed poor little Gros as my friendly adviser, my confidante?"
"But, Madame, I am so young. A young foreign girl, who knows very little of the world! I hope always to be your friend; but a confidante, like Mademoiselle Gros—I don't think I should like to—"
"Mademoiselle, there are many thingsIdo not like, also. Do you think that I like to be spoken to by my own children as I was in front of 'a young foreign girl' this morning? I come of an ancient family: there is still pride in France. The new generation of young girls is terrible. I would never have dared to speak to my dear mother as Suzanne and Elise do to theirs; I would have died first—"
"Madame," I interrupted, "do you love your daughters?"
"Love them? of course I do!At the same time—" She shrugged her shoulders and resumed her plaint.
"Ah, it is hard; I fly from trouble, and it comes always my way. I need peace, and there is always strife. I am so unhappy, so worried, so alone; I trust no one, I believe nothing they tell me. If our relatives were to hear of this! But they shall not; not for worlds would I confide in them. But one must confide in somebody, mustn't one? You, Mademoiselle, you have seen now the kind of thing I have to bear—I am only surprised that you have been so long here without seeing an exhibition like today's. You know now how my daughters treat their mother—"
"Madame," I interposed, "I know nothing. The whole scene at luncheon leaves me bewildered. What did happen?"
"Something, I'm sure. Gros must have seen something: not that at bottom she was reliable, but she could not have invented the whole thing like that, could she? And I was beginning to have a kind of suspicion myself, too. But when Suzanne explained, itseemedtrue, didn't it? She was never a child for falsehoods. And then I remembered how Gros hated Monsieur de Fouquier—"
"Why?"
"Oh, she always hated him ever since she's been here. She was always trying to poison my mind against him: as if she needed to! And as if a poor creature like that was able to influence me. She hated him so because he wanted me to part with her, and she knew it. He was always hoping she would leave."
"Why?" again.
"Because she was always talking against him to me: a vicious circle is it not? So perhaps what Gros said today was merely out of spite against him. Still, the very idea is terrible."
"Why—if I may—if you will forgive my asking—why is the idea of Mademoiselle Suzanne and Monsieur de Fouquier so terrible?"
"I will tell you in a moment. But Elise's manner? What did that mean? She frightened me; she was so hard and bitter. I do not understand. Ah, that would be infinitelyworse: the idea of him and Elise. Fouquier one day master of this château, ruler in my house,—ah no, no, there are limits to what I could endure. Yet there is something with one of the two: I feel there is something. But which?"
"Why either, Madame? If Mademoiselle Gros' story about Suzanne is all a lie—"
"It might be a lie. It never does to be too hopeful; I am always nursing false hopes."
"Well, assume it's a lie, which after what you have told me about Mademoiselle Gros' spite sounds likely; well, that disposes of Suzanne; while as to Elise, except for her wild talk, which means nothing except that she was angry, have you the tiniest reason for suspecting anything of her?"
"How comforting to hear you talk so! Somehow I feel there may be nothing in it after all. But if there were, how terrible!"
"Why, Madame?"
"Ah, you don't know. It is de Fouquier."
"He is a cousin—"
"Only a second cousin."
"Because he is poor?"
"There is that, of course: but listen, I will tell you all."
She looked nervously towards the door, and dropped her voice to a melodramatic whisper. "Listen, Mademoiselle: he is an enemy. There are other bad points, of course: for instance, he is vicious; you are an English girl and understand what I mean. That is not important; all men are more or less like that. Then he is a thief and a cheat. Since my dear husband died, he has managed all my business affairs; all about the estates, you know. He has what we call a power-of-attorney, signs all documents to do with the property, collects all rents and dues, sees to the leases and the farms and all investments and improvements. Well, he is a robber. He takes commissions and bribes from the tenants and dealers; when he invests in the funds he makes a profit for himself; he falsifies all the documents he puts before me. Do you want evidence, proof? The tenants all come to me on the sly and tell me of his tricks. It was long before I discovered, and still longer before I took my courage in both hands and braved him with his treachery. Oh, I was prostrate with fear, but I workedmyself into a temper and that helped me, and I told him in one word—Go!"
"And then?"
"Then the worst thing happened, the thing that had always held me back. He said that if I forced him to leave the château, he would publish abroad things he knew about my husband, would hold up the family name to ignominy and scorn, would prove to all the world that my husband possessed neither honesty nor honour. It was all false, or nearly all; but I was frightened lest he did know something really dishonourable. Anyway, I knew he would pretend he did, and so carry out his threat. Finally I gave in, though he saw the hate in my eyes, he saw that! So he stayed on. He goes more carefully, that is, he contents himself with stealing less. It is only because of this hold over me, through my affection for my dear husband's memory, that he stays. I hate him, and he hates me."
"Will he always stay?"
"Ah," she replied vaguely, "that's just it. I hope he will die. It is wicked of me, and I trust that the good God will pardon me. However, now you understand."
"I am beginning to understand. One thing, though. Surely, Madame, if hewereto marry in the family, then he could have no reason to injure the family name—"
"Mademoiselle, for a man who has so spoken to enter our family would be the foulest dishonour." She drew herself up proudly; there was a touch of real majesty in her poor heroics. Then, subsiding into the customary worried-dormouse manner, puckering her brows, and poking forward her anxious nose: "If there is any danger, it must be stopped now—Oh, what a nightmare! We could easily manage Suzanne, but Elise would be terrible. We must find out for certain. Neither of them would tell me anything: I am only their mother! But you, that is different. They will talk freely to you about today, I feel sure they will, Suzanne for certain. You will tell me what they say?"
"Oh Madame, it would be unkind to make me promise that. I could not break their confidences any more than I could yours, could I?" (Much less so, I realized, as I liked thegirls better; knowing that in the last resort I should be guided by preference rather than reason or even interest.)
"Then you'll not help me! You will leave me alone after all? Without husband, or friend, or companion, untrusted by my children" (whimper), "alone, alone? In the short time since you have come I have tried to make you happy in your life with us, and you will not do me this least service? Why even poor Gros, whom I never really liked, told me all—all she could see."
The last phrase turned me from pity to pertness. "Madame," I said, "I am not Mademoiselle Gros. I am a friend, not a spy."
"Spy," she repeated, a cold glint in her eyes; and I shrank away from her, not so much through fear of her anger as through shame at my own cruelty.
"No, no, Madame," I cried, "I did not really mean that. I only meant that I am so much friendlier with the girls than Mademoiselle Gros was, that it will be harder for me to be fair to them as well as to you. But I sympathize truly with all your troubles and anxieties. I do really, dear Madame, I do not say it to be polite—and I will always try to help you, I will help you however I can, I want to repay your many kindnesses."
"Ah, thank you, thank you," and she squeezed my hand affectionately, with tears in her eyes. "Now I must see Mademoiselle Gros off."
I followed her out, and went upstairs to my bedroom.
Suzanne was ensconced in my window-seat.
"So you've escaped at last. I ask pardon for installing myself here, but I knew it was the only place where I should have you to myself. What has the old dear been saying?"
"A good many things."
"I know. Begging you to be 'on my side, dear Mademoiselle.' Oh, don't worry, I've not been listening at the door; I've always left that to Gros, who never got anything but earache for her pains. I know it all by heart, though. In brief, she wound up by asking you precisely what I am here to ask you myself: in this delightful family circle of thearistocracy of France, will you be onmyside? You hesitate: did you hesitate when she asked you?"
"No, I said 'No' straight out. I said it wouldn't be fair to you two for me to promise that."
"Well, you haven't said 'No' straight out to me. Which means you like me better."
"You know it. But everybody has been so kind, I would rather not take a side at all."
"You'll have to, my poor Mademoiselle! You have seen too much. You have already become more like one of the family in your few months here than any outsider before. And you are too good a friend not to be worth trying for."
"Too useful an ally."
"I mean that. Don't be cynical. Because I like you—and I do enormously—it is not wrong for me to want you to help me, is it? Suppose there were a bad quarrel between Mamma and me, and you became mixed up in it, so that you had to choose to side with one or the other of us, which would it be?"
"I don't think anything like that would arise, and I don't see what I coulddoanyway; but my sympathies would be with you."
"Thank you, I am so happy. I didn't want to make you promise. You would help me, wouldn't you?"
"Perhaps. On one condition, that you told me everything."
"I promise that. But just for fun, I'd like you to tell me beforehand what you have already guessed on your own: what, for instance, you thought of the pleasant little incidents at luncheon today. Just for fun."
"I might say something that would offend you."
"Say whatever you think, I shall like it better."
"It was the suddenness of what happened that took my breath away; I hadn't time to ask myself what I thought. Then Mademoiselle Gros seemed so natural that I thought she must be telling the truth: I'm sorry, but it was difficult to think otherwise, wasn't it?"
"Go on."
"Then you denied it; but even if true I could not understand why your mother was so tragical. Then, when Elisebecame so wild and strange, I had a new doubt—that perhaps it was Elise, and not you, who was fond of Monsieur de Fouquier—"
Suzanne interrupted with a shriek of laughter: "Oh, no, no, no! that is a bit too good."
"Why was she so strange in the way she spoke about him, then?", piqued.
"Oh, that is just like her. I forgot of course that before today you have never seen her as she really is. Why did she speak so wildly? Simply and solely to shield and protect me; to muddle old Mother, and to turn her suspicions and anger away from me. She cannot bear to see Mamma rave at me; it gives her pain, physical pain. It is the way she loves me. I am not worthy of her, sometimes I wish I was. I let her kiss me and sacrifice herself for me; but I can't give her what she wants; I like her, of course, but only as an ordinary sister does. What happened today was a sham to save me."
"I am glad. Now I know how much she loves you, there can never be any danger of my going against her because of my promise just now to you. That is the reason I hesitated—"
"I see. There are gradations. You like Mamma, but would throw her over for me, whom you like better. You like me, but at a pinch would throw me over for Elise."
"It is not like that." (It was.) "Anyway, I've done what you asked and told you what I thought. Now you tell me. Before I can help you, the first thing I have to know is,—well, the chief thing. Did you—was what Mademoiselle Gros said true?"
"Perfectly. Poor dear Mamma! It is the hundredth time Emile has held my hand at table, though the first time we were caught. We embrace each other whenever we have the opportunity; in his office downstairs, in the grounds, anywhere. Listen. He loves me. I love him. That is all that matters. Ah, he is so smart, sochic, so courteous, so perfect a lover! He adores me, worships me, would do anything to please me. Perhaps I don't love him quite as much as he does me, though that will come: oh, soon, soon! He buys me presents, beautiful bracelets and things. I cannot wearthem, though, because of Mamma. Oh, but I love him. The joy of meeting alone in the park, being near together, embracing, hearing his declarations, loving each other. Oh love! There is only love! Ah, I see you understand—"
I flushed, chiefly in anger: that she should dare, even unwittingly, to put de Fouquier in the same place as Robbie.
"What is it?" she asked sharply, "there is something." ("O Lord," I prayed, "send me a lie to tell her, send swiftly!") To gain time: "Unless you promise, solemnly, not to be offended. I cannot tell you."
"I promise."
(God gracious; lie to hand.) "Well, if what I am going to say is not nice—in comparison—for your friend, it is because it is especially nice for you. I like you very very much, but I don't think Monsieur de Fouquier is worthy of you."
"Why?" with a touch of curtness which in loyalty to her promise she strove to hide.
"It is hard to give the reason—"
"Yes, I know, very hard! Because Mother made you promise not to. She has told you Emile is a thief and a cheat because rents are going down owing to bad times, accused him of muddling accounts which she doesn't vaguely comprehend, not any more than I should. She's been repeating to you all the lies told her by dealers and farmers he doesn't buy carts and ploughs and stock from, who say he has been bribed by those he does buy them from. I know all the stories. How dare she poison your mind with lying slanders!"
"My reason for thinking him unworthy of you is something quite different. Is he agoodman?"
She looked puzzled. Then she gave a vague little laugh. "As good as any one else, I suppose. What do you mean by 'good?'"
"Clean-living. Is he a pure man?"
Now she laughed uproariously: her voice jarred on me. "Is he a pure man? My dear Mademoiselle, of course he's not. That's a what-d'ye-call-it, a contradiction in terms, like saying a white nigger. Emile is like the others: keeps mistresses, goes to actress' dressing-rooms, sees cocottes."
"Sees them?" I repeated the silly euphemism mechanically.
"Sleeps with them, possesses them then, if you prefer. Why look so wretched about it? It doesn't worry me. It is the world." Her candid pleasure in shocking me, and the more refined delight of superior worldly-wisdom both failed to annoy me as they should have done: I could only think of the nightmare foulness itself.
"You say—it doesn't worry you? You can love a man like that?"
"Naturally. Better than any other kind, if there were another kind. The more women he has loved, the greater is the compliment in choosing me. If a man is a better schoolmaster the more experience he has had and the more children he has taught, then a man is a better lover the more experience he has had and the more women he has loved. That's logic. Besides, I prefer the man of the world."
"Suzanne!" I cried, calling her by her Christian name for the first time—a twinkle in her eyes acknowledged the fact; I was too deadly earnest for her to dare to smile—"Suzanne, is it true? You are not exaggerating for fun, or to shock me? Do most young girls of our age believe that? Does your mother know you think like that? Do you realize how sick and wretched you are making me? Tell me it is not true!"
"It is true, Mary. I suppose there is still a pretence kept up by mothers, and curés, that young girls don't know how men live; it may have been so once, but now, my dear, we are in the Second Empire! Maybe Mamma fondly imagines Elise and I are still in our cradles, and daren't look at a pair of trousers: she can imagine just what she pleases for all I care. But I am really sorry I have made you miserable. What is the good of worrying about it? The world is like that, you must take it so—"
"I refuse to."
"You'll have to, or else become a nun. A Protestant nun, how funny! Because all men are the same."
"They are not!" I cried with fury, visualizing Robbie and the Stranger. "You shall not say it."