The Isle of Unrest

by Henry Seton Merriman

  CHAPTER V.

  IN THE RUE DU CHERCHE-MIDI.

  “Il ne faut jamais se laisser trop voir, même à ceux qui nous aiment.”

  It was not very definitely known what Mademoiselle Brun taught in theSchool of Our Lady of the Sacred Heart in the Rue du Cherche-Midi inParis. For it is to be feared that Mademoiselle Brun knew nothing exceptthe world; and it is precisely that form of knowledge which is leastcultivated in a convent school.

  “She has had a romance,” whispered her bright-eyed charges, and lapsedinto suppressed giggles at the mere mention of such a word in connectionwith a little woman dressed in rusty black, with thin grey hair, a thingrey face, and a yellow neck.

  It would seem, however, that there is a point where even amother-superior must come down, as it were, into the market-place andmeet the world. That point is where the convent purse rattles thinly andthe mother-superior must face hunger. It had, in fact, been intimated tothe conductors of the School of the Sisterhood of the Sacred Heart by theladies of the quarter of St. Germain, that the convent teaching taughttoo little of one world and too much of another. And the mother-superior,being a sensible woman, agreed to engage a certain number of teachersfrom the outer world. Mademoiselle Brun was vaguely entitled aninstructress, while Mademoiselle Denise Lange bore the proud title ofmathematical mistress.

  Mademoiselle Brun, with her compressed mouth, her wrinkled face, and hercold hazel eyes, accepted the situation, as we have to accept mostsituations in this world, merely because there is no choice.

  “What can you teach?” asked the soft-eyed mother-superior.

  “Anything,” replied Mademoiselle Brun, with a direct gaze, which somehowcowed the nun.

  “She has had a romance,” whispered some wag of fourteen, whenMademoiselle Brun first appeared in the schoolroom; and that became theaccepted legend regarding her.

  “What are you saying of me?” she asked one day, when her rather suddenappearance caused silence at a moment when silence was not compulsory.

  “That you once had a romance, mademoiselle,” answered some daring girl.

  “Ah!”

  And perhaps the dusky wrinkles lapsed into gentler lines, for some onehad the audacity to touch mademoiselle’s hand with a birdlike tap of onefinger.

  “And you must tell it to us.”

  For there were no nuns present, and mademoiselle was suspected of havinga fine contempt for the most stringent of the convent laws.

  “No.”

  “But why not, mademoiselle?”

  “Because the real romances are never told,” replied Mademoiselle Brun.

  But that was only her way, perhaps, of concealing the fact that there wasnothing to tell. She spoke in a low voice, for her class shared the longschoolroom this afternoon with the mathematical class. The room did notlend itself to description, for it had bare walls and two long windowslooking down disconsolately upon a courtyard, where a grey cat sunnedherself in the daytime and bewailed her lot at night. Who, indeed, wouldbe a convent cat?

  At the far end of the long room Mademoiselle Denise Lange wassuperintending, with an earnest face, the studies of five young ladies.It was only necessary to look at the respective heads of the pupils toconclude that these young persons were engaged in mathematical problems,for there is nothing so discomposing to the hair as arithmetic.Mademoiselle Lange herself seemed no more capable of steering a coursethrough a double equation than her pupils, for she was young and pretty,with laughing lips and fair hair, now somewhat ruffled by hercalculations. When, however, she looked up, it might have been perceivedthat her glance was clear and penetrating.

  There was no more popular person in the Convent of the Sacred Heart thanDenise Lange, and in no walk of life is personal attractiveness somuch appreciated as in a girls’ school. It is only later in life that_ces demoiselles_ begin to find that their neighbour’s beauty isbut skin-deep. The nuns--“fond fools,” Mademoiselle Brun calledthem--concluded that because Denise was pretty she must be good. Thegirls loved Denise with a wild and exceedingly ephemeral affection,because she was little more than a girl herself, and was, likethemselves, liable to moments of deep arithmetical despondency.Mademoiselle Brun admitted that she was fond of Denise because she washer second cousin, and that was all.

  When worldly mammas, essentially of the second empire, who perhaps haddoubts respecting a purely conventional education, made inquiries on thissubject, the mother-superior, feeling very wicked and worldly, usuallymade mention of the mathematical mistress, Denise Lange, daughter of thegreat and good general who was killed at Solferino. And no other word ofidentification was needed. For some keen-witted artist had painted agreat salon picture of, not a young paladin, but a fat old soldier,eighteen stone, on his huge charger, with shaking red cheeks and blazingeyes, standing in his stirrups, bursting out of his tight tunic, androaring to his _enfants_ to follow him to their death.

  It was after the battle of Solferino that Mademoiselle Brun had come intoDenise Lange’s life, taking her from her convent school to live in a dulllittle apartment in the Rue des Saints Pères, educating her, dressingher, caring for her with a grim affection which never wasted itself inwords. How she pinched and saved, and taught herself that she might teachothers; how she triumphantly made both ends meet,--are secrets which,like Mademoiselle Brun’s romance, she would not tell. For French womenare not only cleverer and more capable than French men, but they arecleverer and more capable than any other women in the world. History,moreover, will prove this; for nearly all the great women that the worldhas seen have been produced by France.

  Denise and Mademoiselle Brun still lived in the dull little apartmentin the Rue des Saints Pères--that narrow street which runs southwardfrom the Quai Voltaire to the Boulevard St. Germain, where the cheapframe-makers, the artists’ colourmen, and the dealers in old prints havetheir shops. To the convent school, the old woman and the young girl,walking daily through the streets to their work, brought with them thatbreath of worldliness which the advance of civilization seemed to renderdesirable to the curriculum of a girls’ school.

  “It must be heavenly, mademoiselle, to walk in the streets quite alone,” said one of Mademoiselle Brun’s pupils to her one day.

  “It is,” was the reply; “especially near the gutter.”

  But this afternoon there was no conversation, for the literature classknew that Mademoiselle Brun was in a contrary humour.

  “She is looking at that dear Denise with discontented eyes. She is in ashocking temper,” had been the whispered warning from mouth to mouth.

  And in truth Mademoiselle Brun constantly glanced down the length of theschoolroom to where Denise was sitting. But a seeing eye could wellperceive that it was not with Denise, but with the schoolroom, that thelittle old woman was discontented. Perhaps she had at times a cruelthought that the Rue des Saints Pères, emphasized as it were by the Ruedu Cherche-Midi, was hardly gay for a young life. Perhaps the soft touchof spring that was in the March air stirred up restless longings in thesoul of this little grey town-mouse.

  And while she was watching Denise, the cross-grained old nun who acted asconcierge to this quiet house came into the room, and handed Denise along blue envelope.

  “It is addressed in a man’s handwriting,” she said warningly.

  “Then let us by all means send for the tongs,” answered Denise, takingthe letter with a mock air of alarm.

  But she looked at it curiously, and glanced towards Mademoiselle Brunbefore she opened it. It was, perhaps, characteristic of the little oldschoolmistress to show no interest whatever. And yet to her it probablyseemed an age before Denise came towards her, carrying the letter in heroutstretched hand.

  “At first,” said the girl, “I thought it was a joke--a trick of one ofthe girls. But it is serious enough. It is a romance inside a blueenvelope--that is all.”

  She gave a joyous laugh, and threw the letter down on Mademoiselle Brun’sknees.

  “It is my father’s cousin, Mattei Perucca, wh
o has died suddenly, and hasleft me an estate in Corsica,” she continued, impatiently opening theletter, which Mademoiselle Brun fingered with pessimistic distrust. “Seehere! that is the address of my estate in Corsica, where I shall inviteyou to stay with me--I, who stand before you in my old black alpaca, andwould borrow a hairpin if you can spare it.”

  Her hands were busy with her hair as she spoke; and she seemed to touchlife and its entanglements as lightly. Mademoiselle Brun, however, readthe letter very gravely. For she was a wise old Frenchwoman, who knewthat it is only bad news which may safely be accepted as true.

  The letter, which was accompanied by an enclosure, was from aMarseilles solicitor, and began by inquiring as to the identity ofMademoiselle Denise Lange, instructress at the convent school in the Ruedu Cherche-Midi, with the daughter of the late General Lange, who met hisdeath on the field of Solferino. It then proceeded to explain that DeniseLange had inherited the property known as the Perucca property, in thecommune of Calvi, in the Island of Corsica. Followed a schedule of thesaid property, which included the historic château, known as the CasaPerucca. The solicitor concluded with a word for himself, after themanner of his kind, and clearly demonstrated that no other lawyer was socapable as he to arrange the affairs of Mademoiselle Denise Lange.

  “Jean Jacques Moreau,” read Mademoiselle Brun, with some scorn, thesignature of the Marseilles notary. “An imbecile, your Jean Jacques--animbecile, like his great and mischievous namesake. He does not say ofwhat malady your second cousin died, or what income the property willyield--if any.”

  “But we can ask him those particulars.”

  “And pay for each answer,” retorted Mademoiselle Brun, folding the letterreflectively.

  She was remembering that a few minutes earlier she had been thinking thattheir present existence was too narrow for Denise; and now, in thetwinkling of an eye, life seemed to be opening out and spreading with arapidity which only the thoughts of youth could follow and the energy ofspring keep pace with.

  “Then we will go to Marseilles and ask the questions ourselves, and thenhe cannot charge for each answer, for I know he could never keep count.”

  But Mademoiselle Brun only looked grave, and would not rise to Denise’slighter humour. It almost seemed, indeed, as if she were afraid--she whohad never known fear through all the years of pinch and struggle, who hadfaced a world that had no use for her, that would not buy the poorservices she had to sell. For to know the worst is always a relief, andto exchange it for something better is like exchanging an old coat for anew one.

  “And in the mean time--” said Mademoiselle Brun, turning sharply upon herpupils, who had taken the opportunity of abandoning French literature.

  “In the mean time,” said Denise, turning reluctantly away--“in the meantime, I am filling a vat of so many cubic metres, from a well so manymetres deep, with a pail containing four litres, and of course the pailhas a leak in it, and the well becomes deeper as one draws from it, andthe Casa Perucca is, I suppose, a dream.”

  She went back to her work, and in a few moments was quite absorbed in it.And it was Mademoiselle Brun who could not settle to her Frenchliterature, nor compose her thoughts at all. For change is the naturaldesire of youth, and the belief that it must be for the better, part andparcel of the astounding optimism of that state of life.

  A few minutes later Denise remembered the enclosure--a letter in a thickwhite envelope, which was still lying on her desk. She opened it.

  “MADEMOISELLE” (the letter ran),

  “I think I have the pleasure of addressing the daughter of an oldcomrade-in-arms, and this must be my excuse for at once approaching myobject. I hear by accident that you have inherited from the late MatteiPerucca his small property near Olmeta in Corsica. I knew Mattei Perucca,and the property you inherit is not unknown to one who has had officialdealings with landowners in Corsica. I tell you frankly that it would beimpossible, in the present disturbed state of the island, for you to liveat Olmeta, and I ask you as frankly whether you are disposed to sell meyour small estate. I have long cherished the scheme of buying a smallparcel of land in Corsica for the purpose of showing the natives thatagriculture may be made profitable in so fertile an island, by dint ofindustry and a firm and unswerving honesty. The Perucca property wouldsuit my purpose. You may be doing a good action in handing over yourtenants to one who understands the Corsican nature. I, in addition torelieving the monotony of my present exile at Bastia, may perhaps beinaugurating a happier state of affairs in this most unfortunate country.

  “Awaiting your answer, I am, mademoiselle,

  “Your obedient servant,

  “LOUIS GILBERT (Colonel).”

  The school bell rang as Denise finished reading the letter. The class wasover.

  “We shall descend into the well again to-morrow,” she said, closing herbooks.

  The girls trooped out into the forlorn courtyard, leaving MademoiselleBrun and Denise alone in the schoolroom. Mademoiselle Brun read thesecond letter with a silent concentration. She glanced up when she hadfinished it.

  “Of course you will sell,” she said.

  Denise was looking out of the tall closed windows at the few yards of skythat were visible above the roofs. Some fleecy clouds were speedingacross the clear ether.

  “No,” she answered slowly; “I think I shall go to Corsica. Tell me,” sheadded, after a pause--“I suppose I have Corsican blood in my veins?”

  “I suppose so,” admitted Mademoiselle Brun, reluctantly.