"Thank you, thank you," he said.
"We shall make you comfortable here."
"I do not know how long I shall stay."
But Madame was away, calling her servants, preparing the warming pans, arranging for hot water to be carried to his room since he had a passion for the bath.
Madame herself would cook the meal. She would trust no other.
The Englishman drank a glass of wine with Armand.
He has aged, thought Armand. There is silver in his hair now.
They talked of town matters; but Armand was knowledgeable beyond the affairs of his own town. He shook his head. "There is a murmuring in the great cities, Monsieur. We hear it even here in the country. It is like a storm in the distance, you understand, Monsieur? This Louis Philippe and his Marie Amelie—are they going the same way as Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette ? There are some who say they are neither for the aristocrats nor for the people. They meddle with the ministers of State, they bribe the juries and they dictate to the press. Frenchmen do not like this, Monsieur, and they are not calm like the people of Monsieur's country. They are
happy, your people. They have a good Queen, have they not, kept in control by her pious German husband?'*
The Englishman might have replied that England had her troubles; he might have mentioned the Luddites and the men of Tolpuddle, the rising struggle over the corn law*, the concession already granted to one class by another in the reform laws; he might have mentioned the terrible inequalities between rich and poor which were—to those who saw it in a certain way, which he did not —a shameful disgrace to any nation; but of course the inequalities in France were even greater. But the Englishman said none of these things. He preferred to listen to the Frenchman, to shake his head and condole.
Moreover he was thinking of the reason for his visit.
But he did not hurry. It was not in his nature to hurry. He had rehearsed what he would say when he was confronted with the girl whom he had not seen since she had dropped her sabot at his feet.
He ate the excellent fish which Madame had prepared for him; he scarcely noticed Madame's special sauce, but he assured her that it was delicious. Then he retired early that he might be fresh for to-morrow's task.
Melisande stood before her class of little children. Outside the sun was shining. There was a butterfly trying to get out of the windows— a white butterfly with touches of green on his wings. She was thinking of the butterfly rather than of the children.
Poor little butterfly! He was imprisoned in the room even as she was imprisoned in the Convent. She knew nothing of the world; she only knew a life which was governed by bells—bells for rising, bells for prayers, bells for petit dejeuner, for the first class, for the second, for the walk through the town and so on through the days; and every day was alike except saint days and Sundays, and any saint day was like any other saint day, any Sunday like another.
What were the excitements of the days ? Little Jeanne-Marie had the colic; little Yvette had learned to read. Melisande loved little Jeanne-Marie; she was delighted in the triumph of little Yvette; but this was not living.
She spent much time in dreaming of wonderful things which would happen to her, of knights who rode to the Convent and
abducted her; she pictured herself riding away with one of them to an enchanted castle, to Paris, to Rome, to London, to Egypt—all the wonderful countries of which she had read in the geography lessons. When she drew maps with the older children she would picture herself sailing up that river, climbing that mountain.
Sometimes when she was sent to the market with the garments or the garden produce which were to be sold, she would loiter and talk to the stall-holders. The eyes of old Henri would light up when he saw her, and she saw in the gaze of his young grandson that she was too pretty a girl to live in a convent all her life. She would linger at the auberge and try a piece of Madame's rich gateau; Armand would let her see how he admired her while he awaited the answers to the questions he asked her with such burning curiosity. "And how long shall you stay at the Convent, Mademoiselle Melisande? Do you never hear news of some relatives in the outside world?"
Now she went to the window and opened it, but the silly butterfly did not seem to know how to get out even then. She seized it gently and released it.
"It is flying away, home to its children," said young Louise.
"To its little house and its baby butterflies," said Yvette.
She looked at the children, her green eyes momentarily sad. These children were obsessed by the thought of homes, of families in which there was a mother and father. They longed for a home— a real home however humble; they longed for brothers and sisters. She had ceased to long for such impossibilities; she wanted to escape into the world because she felt herself to be a prisoner.
As the butterfly flew away the door opened and Sister Eugenie came in.
Melisande sighed. The classroom in an uproar over a butterfly! She would be reprimanded for this. Why was it that her smallest misdemeanours always seemed to be brought home to her?
But Sister Eugenie did not seem to notice the disturbance. She was looking straight at Melisande, and there was a faint colour in her cheeks; her eyes, beneath her stern headdress, looked as excited as they ever could look.
"I will take the class," she said. "You are to go to la Mere at once."
Melisande was astonished. She opened her mouth to speak, but Eugenie went on: "Go at once. Oh, but first tidy your hair. La Mere is waiting."
Melisande hurried out of the classroom along the corridors to the dormitory. Over the bed which was slightly bigger than the others hung a mirror. The bed and the mirror were hers; now that she was nearly sixteen, it was her duty to sleep in the dormitory with the small children.
Her hair, as usual, was untwining itself from the plaits which
hung over her shoulders. No wonder Sister Eugenie had noticed it!
She hastily replaited it. What could the Mother want with her? She had dallied in the market square only yesterday; she had gossiped and laughed and chattered with Henri. Was that it? "Now, now," had said Henri's grandson. "No flirting with the young lady, Grandpapa!"
She had laughed with pleasure at the time; but what if the nuns had overheard ? What a sin! What a penance would be hers!
She began to frame excuses as she went along to that room in which the Mother spent most of her time studying religious books and looking after the affairs of the Convent.
"Come in," said the Mother, when she knocked.
A man was sitting by the table. She caught her breath with surprise and felt the blood rush into her face. She knew that man. She would have recognized him anywhere because he was not like anyone else she had ever known. He was the Englishman who had sat outside the auberge.
"Melisande," said the Mother, "come here, my child." As Melisande approached the table, the Mother went on: "This is Mr. Charles Adam."
Melisande curtseyed to the stranger.
"Speak to him in English, child," said the Mother. "He would prefer that. Mr. Adam has come to see you. He has something to say to you, and he thinks it would be better if he told it to you himself. I am going to leave you that you may talk with him."
"Yes, ma Merer
"He is your guardian, Melisande. Do not forget ... in English. He will wish to know how proficient you have become in that tongue."
The Mother rose and laid a hand on Melisande's shoulder; she gave her a little push towards Mr. Adam who had risen and was holding out his hand to shake hers.
The door closed on the Mother.
"This is a surprise to you," he said.
"My . . . guardian?" she said.
"Yes . . . yes."
"But you did not say. I mean . . . outside the inn . . . when I dropped my sabot. You did not tell me then. I should have been so excited. I did not know . . ."
She stopped. She was becoming incoherent as Sister Emilie said she was when she was excited, and it was only the fact that it was
not so easy to translate her thoughts into English which stopped the flow of words.
"I am sorry," he said. "I could not explain then. It is difficult even now . . ."
"Of course, Monsieur." She looked at him with delight, taking in every detail: the elegant clothes, the hair slightly greying at the temples, the rather cold grey eyes, the stern mouth; she decided he was somewhat formidable, but everything that a guardian ought to be. He was not the sort of man about whom Therese need have the slightest qualm—nor the Mother, 'it seemed. How odd! Here she was alone in a room with a man for the first time in her life. Her lips curled up at the corners.
"So, Monsieur," she said, "you are my guardian."
"I ... I knew your father."
"Oh, please tell me. I have so often wondered. What Was my father like? Where is he now? Why was I left at the Convent? Is he still alive?"
"Your father was a gentleman," he said.
"And my mother?"
"Your mother died very soon after you were born."
"And my father also?"
"You . . . lost him too. He asked me to look after you."
"And it was you who sent me to the Convent?"
"The education which has been given you here is as good as any you could get. ... I was persuaded."
She laughed and, because he looked surprised, she said: "I am only laughing because I am pleased. No one has been really interested in me before."
"I had thought you might make the Convent your permanent home."
Her face fell. She felt as the butterfly would have felt if, after she had shown him the fresh air and freedom, she had brought him back into the schoolroom.
"I am not good enough to be a nun," she said. She was sad suddenly ; her lids hid the brilliance of her eyes and all the joy seemed to have gone out of her face. "I did not feel the ecstasy of prayers and fasting. Little Louise said that when she worked on the angel's wing in the altar cloth she felt as though she had wings and was flying up to heaven. When I worked on the angel's robe, I just felt it was tiresome and hurt my eyes. You see . . ."
But of course he was not interested in little Louise and her feelings, nor in the weaknesses of Melisande.
She noticed that he ignored what she said and went on with his speech as though he were unaware of her interruption. She must keep quiet, for only by letting him do the talking could she know what he wished to say, and curb this aching curiosity within her.
"But," he went on, "it seems you are unsuited to convent life. So I have come to take you away if you wish to leave."
She clasped her hands together. They were trembling with excitement.
"I have one or two propositions to put before you." He looked at her eager animated face. "I am told that you know something of teaching. That means you could earn your living as a governess. I am told that you would be a good needlewoman if you would apply yourself to such work. It is possible that I may find a situation for you."
She was thoughtful. Perhaps, he thought, she saw herself escaping from one prison to another.
He made up his mind suddenly then. He had not until this moment been quite sure whether he could act so daringly. This was one of the most reckless moments of his life. It would be so simple to take her to Fenella. Fenella would have helped him as readily now as she had once before.
But Melisande was so charming—those shapeless ugly garments could not hide that. She was Millie re-born . . . Millie turned into Melisande. Millie had been pretty and appealing, but this girl had real beauty. Millie was uneducated; this girl's intelligence shone through her beauty. That look of alert enquiry in the green eyes might have been inquisitiveness, but it was enchanting. How could he resist the temptation to bring his own daughter into his home, to watch her day by day? How could he allow her to take a menial post in another household ? He seemed to hear Millie's voice saying: "I want her to have a gros de Naples gown and a mantle ..."
She shall! he decided. He would, for once, forget to be cautious; he would override all difficulties.
"I have a situation for you," he said slowly.
"Oh . . . yes?"
He went on quickly: "My wife died recently. I have a daughter a few years older than you are. She needs a companion. Would you like to live in my house and help to cheer my daughter ? The work would not be arduous. I should like you to be happy in my house. You would have all the comforts . .. the privileges ... of my daughter herself."
Her eyes were shining, for he had changed. She had thought for a moment that he was going to lay his hands on her shoulders and kiss her.
"Yes please," she said. "Please."
"When will you be ready to leave?"
"Why, now!" she cried.
"I think in a few days' time would be more convenient. You will need time to prepare."
She was smiling, and she spoke as usual without considering. "I believe," she said, "that you were very fond of my father."
He turned away from her sharply; then suddenly he turned his head and said over his shoulder: "What makes you think so?"
"To have cared so much about me . . . whom you didn't know . . . to be so pleased because I am coming to live in your house."
When he turned back to her his face was without expression. "Let us hope," he said, "that everyone will be pleased."
It was impossible to keep the secret. The auberge hummed with it.
"What did I tell you ?" cried Armand, delighted. "Now, Madame, you see that I am a man who can put two and two together."
But Madame was sad. "He will never come to see us again. And we shall lose Melisande too."
"You have grown fond of her," said Armand pensively. "She is a beautiful girl. You should rejoice since she is going to her father's house. She will have silks and satins, a handsome husband and a fine dowry."
"But we shall not see her in her silks and satins. We shall not see the handsome husband; and none of the dowry will be spent at our inn."
Armand was philosophical. "There will be others . . . other gentlemen who come to see their daughters . . . other gentlemen to sit with me and watch the children."
"That would be too much of a coincidence," retorted his wife.
"Indeed no," murmured Armand; "it would be life."
They watched them depart on the coach which would take them to Paris—that incongruous pair; the Englishman with the melancholy expression and the vivacious young girl in her sombre convent clothes.
Madame was openly weeping, and Armand wiped a tear from his eye as he returned to his bottle of wine.
It was not until they were in Paris that Charles changed his identity. Now it was safe, he thought; and he would have to tell her before they reached England.
"I was Charles Adam to the nuns," he said. "But that is not my real name. It is Charles Trevenning."
"Trevenning," she repeated with her French accent. "Is that so then?" How true it was that she spoke first and thought afterwards. "This ... it was a . . ." She struggled for the word. "It was a necessary . . . ?"
"The position was a little difficult. My friends . . . being unable to see to these matters for themselves ..."
"You mean my parents?"
"Yes. And I . . . with a child on my hands."
She nodded. "It was an awkwardness," she said. "A great awkwardness," she repeated, delighted with the word. Her eyes were sparkling. She had read forbidden books. There had been a lady staying at the auberge who had spoken to her and, being interested in her, had given her several books. She had smuggled them into the Convent. One grew tired of PilgrirrCs Progress and the Bible. How enthralling were those books! What excitement to read of the outside world, where there was love, death and birth—all of which, it seemed so often, should never have taken place.
She was not as ignorant as people believed of life outside convents. She saw his point. Her parents had died and left him a baby. That was an awkwardness indeed. There would be scandal—and scandal was a frequent ingredient of the forbidden books. She understood perfectl
y why he had had to be Charles Adam. "But," she said, speaking her thoughts aloud, "the nuns would never have told."
"It seemed wiser," he said. "Will you remember then that I am Charles Trevenning, Sir Charles Trevenning. There is another matter. You must have noticed that you and I attract some attention. That is because people wonder about our relationship. It might be wiser if at this stage of our journey I call you . . . my daughter."
She nodded vigorously and with delight. "It is an honour," she said. "It pleases me."
He was relieved to find her so intelligent. He was becoming more and more drawn to her with every passing moment.
"And," he went on, "there is the matter of clothes. While we are in Paris we will try to find something more suitable for you."
She was enchanted by the idea of buying new clothes.
It was necessary to stay some days in the French capital, and he was determined to make her presentable before they left; he wished her *o look like an English schoolgirl, who, having been met by her father after completing her stay at a finishing school, was going home.
He was sure that she attracted attention because of her incongruous clothes, because she talked too much, because she was excited by everything she saw. He believed that she would calm
down. But he found that he could not make her into the girl he wished her to be; she was, above all things, herself. He pictured her vaguely in a discreet dress of dark tartan with a little cape about her shoulders; he saw her in a neat bonnet which would help to subdue the brilliance of her eyes.
When they entered the shop he said to the saleswoman in his stiff French: "This is my daughter. I want her to have a discreet outfit."
But he had reckoned without the saleswoman . . . and Melisande. The latter had already seen a beautiful gown with frills and flounces, with a low-cut bodice and leg-of-mutton sleeves. She stood before it, her arms folded across her breast.
It began in Vauxhall Gardens Page 6
