by Joan Aiken
At last the conclave in the bedroom broke up; the doctor came downstairs looking grave. He issued a whole series of instructions to the nurse and Lady Morningquest.
“And let me be sent for at once if he shows any alarming symptoms. I bid you good night, my lady. I will be here again very early tomorrow.”
Only after he had gone did Lady Morningquest recall her goddaughter.
“Ellen! My poor child, this is a sorry arrival for you. In all the commotion I am afraid I had forgotten you.”
“It was of no consequence, ma’am,” said Ellen. “Indeed I would have asked for a fiacre and taken myself off, only it would have seemed so discourteous after all your kindness; and I wished to inquire after the little boy. What does the doctor say?”
“Wretched imp!” Lady Morningquest frowned and smiled. “The doctor says he has a head of solid mahogany, and may well be none the worse when he comes out of his swoon. That we shall have to see. But you, my child—I think, as it is so late, you had best spend the night here, and I will have you driven to my niece’s house tomorrow morning.”
“Oh, no, ma’am!” The last thing Ellen wished was to wait, dangling between two worlds; if she must commence a new phase of existence, she had a violent urge to make the change as soon as possible. She said, “If it is not inconvenient, pray, pray let me be taken to the Hôtel Caudebec directly. I believe you said, ma’am, that they keep odd hours? So perhaps it will not put them out if I arrive rather late.”
“Oh—very well, my dear, if that is your wish. Certainly it is no inconvenience to me; I shall hardly be stirring from home until Tom is in a better way. Wait, then, and I will indite a note to Louise.”
She disappeared into her boudoir and soon returned with the note. “There. And I shall call myself to see how matters are going directly Tom is pronounced out of danger. Good night, child; I hope you will be comfortable, and I trust that you will do your duty.”
“Good night, ma’am, and I thank you most sincerely.”
The carriage ride to the Hôtel Caudebec was rapid, for the la Ferté residence was located in the rue de l’Arbre Vert, off the new Boulevard Haussmann. In ten minutes the coachman was knocking at the outer gate, and presented Lady Morningquest’s note to the porter. After a somewhat lengthy interval, Miss Paget was requested to come in. Her shabby portmanteau and the rush basket were handed to a couple of impassive-faced footmen in black velvet knee breeches, and she herself was led across a cobbled inner courtyard where a fountain played, through a lobby with painted ceiling and gold-encrusted furniture, and up one side of an imposing double flight of stairs. From here she was hurried along through an interminable series of reception rooms, where her eyes were dazzled by a succession of Florentine bronzes, Venetian chandeliers, Japanese lacquer screens, velvet-upholstered chairs with bronze sphinxes for arms, huge Chinese porcelain jars, Boulle cabinets, and Pompadour carvings. The impression received was of extreme opulence, unguided by the discipline of good taste, or, indeed, of any taste at all.
Turning into another wing of the house (which seemed enormous), they entered a suite of rooms much more elegantly and sparsely furnished, and then passed into a silent, scented boudoir which appeared to Ellen’s bewildered and weary senses like the inside of a large, pale-gold bubble. The delicate fluted chairs were upholstered in straw-colored damask, an immense expanse of velvet carpet matched them in color, as did the brocade window curtains. A Venetian candelabrum, a gold inkstand adorned with cherubs on a delicate Régence desk repeated the same pale, cool brilliance. There were few ornaments in the room, save a gilt clock representing the nine Muses, and some paintings by Greuze of diaphanously clad ladies.
At a small round marble table, its top inlaid with checkered squares of black and white, two girls sat silently playing chess, occasionally pausing to refresh themselves by sips of ice water from crystal glasses. They were dressed identically—and very unfashionably, was Ellen’s first thought—in delicate severe gowns of flowing vestal white, over primrose-colored slips. They resembled actresses in a play when the curtain has just gone up; only, Ellen wondered, who is there to admire them, apart from me?
She could not help admiring them very much as she moved doubtfully in the footman’s wake; compared with their cool elegance she felt dreadfully clumsy, travel-stained, undersized, and dowdy, in her plain stuff traveling dress, merino cloak, and the beaver bonnet which she had trimmed herself. It seemed probable that these scornful swanlike girls might rise up, preen themselves, and then peck her to death.
Both had pale-yellow hair which glistened like fine corn silk; it was drawn austerely from their brows, taken smoothly upwards, and dressed in Grecian style to fall in clusters at the back of their necks. They seemed much of a height, but one was more slenderly built than her companion; her hair was a paler gold, and her features in a thinner mold. This one, glancing up as the footman bowed, remarked, “You may wait outside, Gaston… So you are Miss Ellen Paget, sent me, it seems, as a species of Easter gift by my energetic aunt Paulina?”
“How do you do?” murmured Ellen, but the Comtesse, without paying attention, went on, “How that woman delights in seeing herself as a dea ex machina; it would be diverting, if there were not the fatigue of having to thank her for her unsolicited good offices.”
“Are you obliged to accept them?” inquired her friend. Ellen had little trouble in guessing this to be the Germaine de Rhetorée considered an undesirable influence by Lady Morningquest. She looked intelligent, strong-willed, and fascinating, Ellen decided: blunt-featured, with a long, round neck, a wide-lipped mouth, dark-gray eyes, beautiful brows, and that kind of biscuit-pale skin, rather thick in texture, which never varies in color.
“Oh, what can one do?” yawned Louise de la Ferté, glancing up carelessly at Ellen. She added with a shrug, “Doubtless, Miss Paget, if you are such a paragon as Aunt Paulina will have me believe, you will be able to set us all to rights in very short order.”
“Is there so much, then, that requires doing?” Ellen inquired rather tartly. She was discouraged by this chilly reception.
Louise appeared vaguely surprised at such a reply, and murmured, with another shrug, “Ah, who is to decide?”
But Germaine’s heavy white eyelids flew up, she accorded Ellen a full, intent scrutiny, then smiled, displaying magnificent teeth.
“Perhaps, after all, Miss—?”
“Paget.”
“Perhaps Miss Paget will be an addition to our circle, ma chère Arsinoë. Do you know Greek?” she asked Ellen.
“A very little.”
“And Latin?”
“A little more. I was used—” Ellen checked herself. To help Gerard, a slow beginner, she had studied Latin and Greek for four years with him and his tutor—but why volunteer information to this coolly patronizing catechist, who was not even her employer?
“Oh well…” Louise yawned again, delicately closing her mouth with two thin fingers. “Doubtless it will be all for the best…” And she turned her eyes back to the chessboard, apparently forgetting her new employee. Ellen stood wondering what she should do; aching with fatigue, she longed to retire, yet was not certain if the interview was over. She did not think she was going to like her new situation at all, and heartily wished that Lady Morningquest had not seen fit to interfere in her affairs.
Germaine remarked, “Miss Paget probably wishes to leave us, my dear.”
“What is that you say?” Louise glanced up again. “Oh, are you still there? You wish to retire? But it is not particularly late? Had you not best enter immediately upon your duties?”
No inquiry about her journey, her luggage, her room, or whether she had dined.
“Certainly, Countess,” Ellen said. “I shall be glad to do whatever you wish—if you will be so good as to tell me what that is?”
“Why, I suppose you should find my tiger kitten and put her to bed.”
“The little countess. My daughter Menispe. Your pupil,” replied Louise, raising her fine flaxen eyebrows. Her lashes were remarkably long and sweeping, over large gray-green eyes; and they had the interesting peculiarity of a narrow dark-brown stripe across their silvery pallor.
The strikingly similar looks of the two girls must, Ellen thought, have been one of the original factors causing their alliance. There must—surely?—have been more than a touch of self-interest in an association that so underlined and emphasized the appearance of the two friends.
She began to find in herself a strong curiosity about the Comte de la Ferté. What did he look like? And where did he fit in?
“Your daughter is not in bed yet?” she inquired politely, and felt justified in raising her own brows. The hour was now eleven-thirty at night, high time, one would have thought, for a four-year-old child to be asleep.
“Oh, I imagine she is with her father. She spends what time she can with him—when he chooses to visit his own home, which amounts to about four hours in four hundred,” replied Louise in a fatigued manner, her hand suspended over a knight on the board. “Check!” she added, and then sharply struck a little gilt bell. Gaston the footman reappeared.
“Conduct Mademoiselle Paget to wherever Menispe is with Monsieur le Comte, Gaston. Oh, and instruct Marmoton to see that a room is prepared for Mademoiselle; adjacent to that of Mademoiselle Menispe.”
“Miladi.” He bowed, and turned to lead Ellen out. As she trod behind him across the endless expanse of soft pale carpet, Ellen heard Louise murmur, “What a little field mouse. Well, at least Raoul won’t fall in love with her.”
“I would not depend on that, chérie. You know his unexpected habits.”
“Undiscriminating, you should say.”
One of them laughed, a cool, unamused sound. Then Germaine said, “I like her eyes. And her voice.”
“Oh—if you care for that kind of pert self-confidence. I find it presumptuous and ennuyante.”
“You have placed yourself en prise, ma chère,” Germaine said gently, just before the door closed.
Seething with annoyance, Ellen followed the footman.
She was not sure what she expected. There had been something a little touching, to her mind, in Louise’s description of the small Menispe insisting on being with her father during his brief periods in the mansion; it had called up an image in her mind of the child curled up asleep by the young man as he sat, perhaps, signing papers in some library or business room.
The reality proved otherwise. Gaston conducted Ellen down another flight of stairs, paused to confer with a gray-haired steward, then took her along a wide corridor paved with white and gray marble, which led round two sides of yet another courtyard, to an opposite wing. Here she entered an opulent suite of four rooms, interconnected, hung with purple and gold silk, lavishly heated by warm air from underground vents, and furnished with marquetries in copper and brass, horn and tortoiseshell, by Boulle and Bérain. On the walls hung superb paintings by Ruysdael, Van Dyck, Titian, Rembrandt, and Teniers in gold frames. All the rooms blazed with light from Boulle lustres and candles in silver-gilt sconces. And they were filled with company, fashionably dressed men and women, strolling, drinking, talking, and playing cards. The contrast to that distant room where the two girls sat over their chess game, sipping ice water, could not have been more complete. A buffet was set with elaborate dishes, from scalloped oysters and ortolans to ices and sorbets. Footmen hurried about with trays of iced punch and champagne, tea, coffee, and liqueurs.
Why, thought Ellen, looking about her in amazement, Lady Morningquest was quite right. It is a regular gaming salon.
She had never expected to enter such a place.
Distributed about the rooms were a number of green-baize-covered tables, at which players sat engaged in games of whist, piquet, écarté, Boston, and baccarat-à-deux-tables. Other guests strolled between the tables. A hum of talk filled the apartments.
Some of the guests turned to stare in mild surprise at Ellen, plainly dressed and travel-soiled, as she doggedly followed behind Gaston to the farthest extremity of the suite. She heard murmurs in well-bred voices:
“Who can that be?”
“The housekeeper? Some indigent relative? An old flame?”
“A burnt-out flame in that case, surely?”
It occurred to Ellen that Lady Morningquest’s description of the Comte’s associates had been quite wide of the mark. These people looked like the cream of Paris society. They were all handsome, beautifully dressed, and, to judge by their demeanor, highly bred. Most of them appeared also to be extremely rich. Ellen noticed, in passing, a magnificent gown of black satin brocade with flounces of English lace, a necklace of diamonds large as hazelnuts that must be worth 150,000 francs, a lady with twelve rows of huge pearls on each arm.
At the extreme end of the farthest room there was a roulette table, and toward this Gaston made his way.
The banker at this table was a man younger than most of the company.
“Faites vos jeux, faites vos jeux, mesdames, messieurs,” he was calling cheerfully.
A professional croupier? thought Ellen. He was thin, active, light-limbed; although correctly enough dressed, like the other men, in black and white, he seemed very untidy; his cravat had gone awry and, from the cigarillo which dangled between his lips, a trail of ash had fallen on his collar. His hair, which he wore rather long, was rumpled, his lids, half closed to keep the cigar smoke out, sometimes flashed up to reveal deep-set eyes of a curious light-gold color. Then, with a shock of surprise—though why in the world should she be surprised?—Ellen saw that he had, beside him in his massive carved chair, a little girl in a cream-colored frock who was dancing up and down with excitement and calling out numbers as the wheel spun: “Sixaine, Papa! Douzaine! En plein! À cheval, à cheval!” Good God, thought Ellen, that must be the Comte. But he is so young! Younger, surely, than his wife? And she is not at all old!
There was indeed something startlingly youthful and vulnerable about his face; though the sculpture of its bones was strong—tragic, even—his expression was still that of a boy, laughing, wary, excitable, sensitive. The look of youthfulness was increased by the darkness of his jaw; like many black-haired men, he plainly needed to shave more than once a day, and had not done so.
The wheel spun to a halt. Amid screams of joy and cries of self-congratulation or mock despair, new chips were distributed. Then Gaston ventured to approach the banker and whisper in his ear.
“Milord—there is a—a demoiselle here who comes from Madame la Comtesse—”
Surprised, the Comte turned round. His eyes held a flash of momentary emotion—surprise, certainly, hope, perhaps which faded when he beheld the prosaic figure of Ellen. Yet he greeted her with cool politeness.
“Mademoiselle? How can I serve you?”
“Monsieur le Comte de la Ferté? Good evening.” The only thing, thought Ellen, would be to carry off the situation with firmness and dispatch. “I am your daughter’s new gouvernante, Ellen Paget,” she told him. “I was informed by Madame la Comtesse that the little girl was here. I am come to take her to bed.”
The Comte looked utterly astonished. “Menispe? To bed? What new caper is this? She never goes to bed before three on nights when my friends come to play with me. Indeed, I cannot afford to part with her—she is my luck! Without her, the bank is certain to lose!”
The child at his side set up a clamor. “Papa! I am not to go to bed, am I? I do not wish to go to bed. I will not go to bed!”
She was a flaxen-haired little creature, resembling her mother in that, but not in her features, which were strongly marked, more like those of her father. It seemed probable that she might, in time, become a striking woman, but at present she was an ugly child, bony and scrawny, like a fledgling bird.
�
�Oh, la-la,” Ellen heard the lady with the pearl bracelets murmur. “It seems that Madame Mère plays a new tactic in the domestic campaign.”
“The new tactic must have been carefully chosen not to upset Raoul’s susceptibilities. Do, pray, observe the prunella boots!”
“And the gray stockings!”
“The bluestocking has sent him a gray stocking.”
“Hush! The poor dear will hear you.”
“Eh bien, mon cher Raoul, it seems that you are to lose your talisman. The lady wife has put her foot down.”
“Ah, come, my dear miss; let the little one remain just another half hour. What difference can it make?”
Ellen reddened, but held her course.
“I am afraid I must trouble you to accede to the Comtesse’s request, monsieur; it is not at all healthy for a child of her age to be up so late, and in this hot, smoky atmosphere. Furthermore—”
“What can you know about it, mademoiselle?” he retorted. “You appear to be hardly out of the schoolroom yourself.”
“On the contrary, I am an experienced teacher, Comte, and even if I were not, it does not take an acute observer to see that the child is greatly overtired and overexcited. Come, little one.”
And with a swift movement, Ellen picked up little Menispe, grasping her firmly, and turned to Gaston, saying, “Conduct me, if you please, to the child’s bedchamber.”
She caught an expression of blank amazement on the footman’s face, which was immediately replaced by one of startled respect.
“Very good, mademoiselle.”
“I will bid you good night, Monsieur le Comte,” said Ellen, as well as she could above the kicking, threshing, and screaming of little Menispe, who was carrying on like a demented fury.
The Comte shrugged resignedly, and called, “Bonsoir, mignonne, bonne nuit!”
“Mon dieu!” somebody muttered. “What a little spitfire. It is true that child is disgracefully overindulged. One cannot help pitying the gouvernante.”
