by Joan Aiken
“How very good your English is, mademoiselle,” said Ellen politely—they were speaking in that tongue.
Germaine laughed—a free, infectious boy’s laugh.
“Tactful Miss Paget! You do not intend to discuss your employers’ child with a third party. But—en effet—I did not come here to discuss la petite.”
“No?”
Germaine sauntered to the window. With a movement of her hand, as she stood looking out, she invited Ellen to join her. The room looked south onto the large formal town garden which lay to the rear of the Hôtel—a pleasant place at this benign season, with its clipped trees in tubs, paved walks, and glowing beds of tulips, though in winter it would be gray and dreary enough.
Although the sky today was dark and threatening, the Comte de la Ferté and his wife were to be seen there, standing halfway along a graveled allée; even from this distance the antagonism in their bearing was unmistakable. He appeared to demand, and she to refuse; his gestures were wild, beseeching, and angry, hers cold, restrained, and implacable.
“Poor things,” said Germaine, glancing at them, shrugging. “A disastrous match. The sooner he accepts that, the better for all.”
Detachedly, Ellen wondered if Germaine’s motive in coming here had been to observe the couple from this point of vantage. Averse, herself, to a kind of eavesdropping—though words could not be heard at this distance—she walked away from the window, and asked, “How can I serve you, Mademoiselle de Rhetorée?”
Unexpectedly, Germaine said, “Have you ever tried your hand at translation?”
“Of what nature?”
“Ah, there! I see you have not. But I am wondering if you might not discover in yourself a decided talent for it…whether you might consent to become my collaboratress? Any dolt can see that your work here, attempting to subdue that little monster, will only employ a twentieth part of your intellectual powers—”
“You are too good, mademoiselle,” said Ellen coldly, but Germaine only laughed.
“Oh, I have been listening to you, believe me, since you arrived among us! You have a mind of your own. And indeed, that old dragon, Lady Morningquest, had reported you as a jeune fille à caractère of considerable intellectual endowments! One must always take the aunt’s opinions with a grain of salt. But I find that in this she did you no injustice.”
Ellen’s few days in Paris had by no means inured her to the loss of the Brussels life. She continued to feel desperately lonely and disoriented. The occasional cold civilities of Louise de la Ferté and the daylong company of little Menispe were no compensation for the continual energetic use of her mind that the Brussels school had demanded; and her salary proved to be somewhat less than she had been receiving there—though, to be sure, her circumstances were more comfortable. But she still pined for the big carré, the noisy spotless classroom, her blunt, friendly colleagues at the Pensionnat, and the daily chance of an encounter with Monsieur Patrice. This offer of what sounded like interesting work and the necessary interaction that it would involve with a lively and stimulating personality was a temptation not lightly to be dismissed.
She replied with caution, however.
“Anything I might undertake would have to be acceptable to the Countess.”
“Oh, my dear girl! You are not her slave! And Louise is no slave driver. What you do in your spare time is of no concern to her.”
“Besides, I may not have the necessary capacities. What is it that you are suggesting?”
“Oh, quant â ça, I have already observed that both your English and your French are fluent and pure. Why should not you be the one to achieve an ideal rendition of my work? I do not know if Lady Morningquest informed you that I have written various nouvelles and feuilletons?”
Ellen murmured that the Countess’s aunt had mentioned something of the kind.
“Ha! And I can imagine what the old Gorgon said about them. Well, it is true,” admitted Germaine, “that I did begin by writing terrible rocambolesque rubbish for La Presse and Le Siècle—one has to commence somehow, after all! But now, my romances are quite intellectuel, and have been published in Le Constitutionnel and La Revue de Paris—after all, even Madame Bovary was first serialized there! So there is no need for old Recherche-matin to look down her long nose at me. And nothing I gave you would bring a blush to your cheek.”
In talking about her work, Ellen noticed, Germaine seemed younger, less poised and more spontaneous.
“You wish your romances to be translated into English? Have any of them been, already?”
“No, none! And it is in England that the money is made,” said Germaine with greedy cheerfulness. “Why—of Monsieur Guillaume Thackeray, it is said that he lives in the style of an aristocrat, that his footmen are turned out in silk stockings! Le Cricri du Foyer earned Charles Dickens un million!—and that is by no means one of his major works. Balzac was consumed with envy for Dickens. Rates of pay here are wretched—that poor Flaubert received only eight hundred francs for the book version of Bovary. Imagine it!”
This seemed like a handsome sum to Ellen, whose entire salary was nine hundred francs a year—but at least she could be certain of it; writing must be a terribly chancy occupation. She was impressed by the glibness with which Germaine ran off these sums and well-known names.
“I am sure that I should greatly enjoy reading some of your work, Mademoiselle de Rhetorée,” she ventured civilly. “And I imagine I should soon be able to decide whether translating it lay within my capacity.”
“Oh, I feel certain it will,” said Germaine firmly. “And then, among your English connections, you are, perhaps, familiar with some publisher?”
Ellen was obliged to confess that she had no personal acquaintance in such circles.
“No matter. The Société des Auteurs et Compositeurs will furnish me with addresses—however, I look too far ahead. Tomorrow I will bring you Ondine and Corombona—those are my two best novels—and you shall give me your opinion of them. How I look forward to that!”
Threading her arm through that of Ellen she went on in a cajoling tone, “But my selfishness is outrageous. Here I am, pressing my concerns upon you, boring on with my own business, when, in point of fact, I am dying of curiosity about you. Tell me about yourself. I know that you are ‘born,’ as we say—both Louise and I are acquainted with your brother Benedict. What a charmer! So I think it very gallant of you to earn your bread abroad as a free woman, rather than remain at home to submit to a mariage de convenance. How in the world does this come about? You English are so independent. Let me hear all your history!”
“Oh,” Ellen demurred, slightly taken aback by this sudden burst of interest, “I am not really as ‘born’ as you seem to imagine, mademoiselle. True, my mother was an earl’s granddaughter, but my father is only an English country gentleman; and Benedict Masham is my stepbrother, not my real brother. My father married Benedict’s mother after my own mother died.” Ellen stopped short.
“Your own mother’s death? That was a great grief to you?” pounced Germaine with an acute look.
“Yes!”
“Lucky girl—to have been fond of your mother! Mine I virtually never saw; I was an only child, sent off to be brought up on a farm in the country while Maman lived in Paris; then I went to the Couvent des Anglaises, where I met Louise; then we both attended a lycée in Bonn.”
“You have been friends so long?”
“Since we were fourteen. We vowed to spend our lives as close to one another as we could,” said Germaine with her conspiratorial grin. “But your father? What kind of man is he? And do you have sisters—brothers—of your own?”
“My father? A dry, disappointed man. He read for the Bar; but never practiced law. He had a great ambition to go into Parliament, but after contesting three elections and failing to be returned, had spent most of his inheritance, and was obliged to relinquish any
hope of a political career. So for years he has been merely a Justice of the Peace, and occupied himself with local affairs. He has two passions—not spending money, and thinking himself better than other people.”
“You paint a devastating portrait, ma chère. Sisters?”
“Two, both married, unhappily, I am afraid, pushed into hasty matches by my father and stepmother. There is also a very much younger half sister, Vicky, a little older than Menispe. And a brother, Gerard, aged fifteen.”
Recalled to thoughts of her charge, Ellen turned to the child, who was looking abused and mutinous. She had tired of her assault on the wooden sheep, and was irritably tearing up some fashion plates which had been given her to color with crayons.
“Your stepmother: is she unkind to you?”
“Not unkind; but we are not compatible.”
“Describe her.”
Why am I spilling out all these personal details to a total stranger? Ellen wondered. But she could not help being disarmed and attracted by Germaine’s apparently eager and genuine interest.
Giving a brief description of Lady Adelaide, Ellen walked over to Menispe.
“If you do that, then you will not have the pictures when you wish to color them,” she pointed out.
“You are supposed to play with me, not her,” grumbled Menispe, scowling at Germaine.
“Oh, la-la! Children’s convenience must give way to that of adults,” Germaine told her airily. “And who would wish to play with a sulky-faced maggot such as you? I am sure your sister Vicky is not such a one,” she said to Ellen. “And your younger brother? Is he sympathique?”
“He is a musical genius; he has little time for human relations. In a way, he is very like Papa.”
“Tiens! Are you, then, musical too?”
“A little, but not to Gerard’s degree. I was wondering, though, if Madame la Comtesse would consent to a pianoforte in the schoolroom. I suspect that our friend here might benefit.”
“You will have to apply to Raoul; he holds the purse strings. It is a daily aggravation to my poor Louise. Married to one of the richest men in Normandy, and she must apply to him for every sou. Moreover—when you consider those gaming rooms, and what he does with his millions—”
Ellen considered that the subject had moved outside her scope, and she picked up a pair of blunt-ended scissors, as a hint that she had neglected her duties for long enough.
With a flashing smile Germaine said, “Enough of the la Ferté problems! And I must go and robe myself for Louise’s salon. Why do you not attend, one of these afternoons? She holds them every Tuesday and Thursday. You would find them amusing, I believe. My Arsinoë knows how to attract good company, it is her gift—the brightest wits in Paris gather here on those days. Halévy—Baudelaire—Flaubert—the Goncourt pair—even sometimes Madame George, who is our heroine.”
“Baudelaire?” Ellen was caught by the name. “Is he not very scandalous?”
“Tah! He was ordered to remove six poems from Les Fleurs du Mal; he removed them; propriety is satisfied. His literary and artistic judgment are masterly.”
“But would Louise permit me—?”
“Oh, mon dieu, yes! Anybody who has read, and can talk, is welcome—particularly a personable young female, to offset all those old witches whose husbands are members of the Académie. You could, perhaps, be dressed a little more in the mode. Gray merino, my dear child, is not quite the wear! But you are much of a height with Louise; she has half a room filled with garments that she never looks at. I daresay her maid Michon would soon alter something—”
“Thank you, mademoiselle,” Ellen said with hauteur, “but I believe I need not trouble the Comtesse or her maid. I am accustomed to look after my own wardrobe, and feel confident of achieving some suitable apparel when I have had time to study the Paris costumes.”
“Well, well, don’t ruffle up at me! I meant it kindly. Arsinoë and I wear classic dress, but that won’t do for you, you are not sufficiently maigre; current fashion will be best, a restrained draping, swept-up line, and military jaquette.”
“Thank you for your advice,” Ellen said, resolving to follow none of it.
Germaine laughed at her. “Eh,” she said in French, “you are as prickly as a châtaigne—fierce as a bear. I think I shall call you Callisto! And now good-bye—I have vexed you long enough.”
Kissing her hand to the sulky Menispe, she was on the point of leaving when a footman knocked, entered, and proffered a card to Ellen on a silver salver. Ellen’s heart leaped, then sank again. Germaine, glancing sidelong at the pasteboard with her keen eyes, exclaimed, “The Honorable Benedict Masham. Tiens, but how charming. Your beau-frère comes to seek you out in this nest of hornets. Eh bien, à demain, mon amie—” and, flickering her long supple fingers at Ellen, she strolled from the room.
“I left the young milord in the small blue salon, mademoiselle, while I came to ascertain if you wished to see him,” said Michel the footman, in whose eyes Ellen’s status had evidently soared as a result of this very eligible caller.
“Yes. I will see him. Véronique?” Ellen put her head through the door into the nursery, which was next the schoolroom. “Will you bring your sewing, please, and sit with Mademoiselle Menispe for ten minutes? I have a visitor.”
“Bien sûr, mademoiselle.” The bonne good-naturedly gathered up her things, and Ellen reflected that one, at least, of Lady Morningquest’s warnings had not proved valid; the servants in this house seemed disposed to be friendly to the governess, probably because they were glad that somebody else had to grapple with Menispe. But as for the rest of the warning… What would her godmother say if she knew that Ellen had agreed to translate Germaine de Rhetorée’s novels? Ellen was supposed to be doing her best to discourage the frequency of Germaine’s visits, not entering upon a relationship of her own with the undesirable confidante.
Well, perhaps I shall discover that I am incapable of undertaking the translation, she reflected. Or that I don’t like the books and don’t wish to do it. Or perhaps Germaine will not like what I do… But if I do it, and do it well, and we become friends—then perhaps it will be possible for me to drop a word of advice in her ear.
She smiled to herself at the improbability of her finding it possible to counsel the assured, not to say swaggering, Germaine. Admit, she told herself, that you have been bowled over by her charm. And also by the chance to embark on a new career—an interesting, distracting occupation.
Endeavoring to banish Germaine from her thoughts, she turned her mind to Benedict. How strange it was—more than strange—that he should have sought out his stepsister like this, twice, in quick succession. What could be his reason? He did not need an entrée to the Hôtel Caudebec—Germaine had said Louise knew him; and in any case he would not achieve it by way of the governess. Not Benedict! He and the Comte probably attended the same gaming halls.
Michel stood aside, bowing, and she walked swiftly into the small blue salon. Benedict came forward to greet her. She was startled at once, and made anxious, by the unbroken black of his clothes and the unwonted gravity of his expression.
“Benedict? Is something wrong? You look so—”
He took her hands and said rapidly, “Do not be under any apprehension! I have bad news, but it does not closely concern you; or at least—”
“Oh, what is it?” she cried in affright. “Pray tell me at once—do not try to break it by degrees!”
“My mother has been killed in a carriage accident,” he said. “And in the same occurrence your father was injured, but not fatally; he suffered a concussion and a fractured hip, but is now said to be going on well—”
“Oh, Benedict! I am so very sorry. Your poor, poor mother—what a frightful thing!”
“It was that peacocky pair of matched chestnuts she insisted on buying from Curtis,” he said gloomily. “I warned her about them—so did
your father, times out of number. A wholly unsuitable team for a lady to be driving round those narrow Sussex lanes—but my mama, as you know, was resolved on cutting a dash and pursuing her own course, come what may.”
“Poor Benedict,” she said again. “I am so very sorry.”
But his narrow clever face appeared somber rather than grief-stricken. Ellen was aware that in fact most of Adelaide’s shallow affections had been concentrated on her elder son, Easingwold.
“Where is my father now? And how did you obtain this intelligence?”
He told her about the message which had arrived in Brussels just after she left.
“This was followed by a letter from my aunt Blanche Pomfret. Doubtless your sister Eugenia has written to you, to Brussels. Your father was in the Infirmary in Chichester, but is now removed to the Bishop’s Palace, where your sister Eugenia visits him daily.”
“He won’t be too pleased at that. Poor Papa! How will he manage now? He is bound to consider that Fate has dealt him a most unjust blow—just after he had settled down so comfortably with your mother.”
“Comfortably? Humph! My aunt Blanche writes that she has hired a housekeeper who is presiding at the Hermitage, and will no doubt take care of your father when he is fit to return home.”
“Oh, heavens! I wonder if I ought to go back?” Ellen wrung her hands rather distractedly. She could well imagine people in Petworth—her sisters—Madame Bosschère—Lady Morningquest—saying, “Without doubt it is the duty of his unmarried daughter to return and take care of Luke Paget.”
“Why? He wouldn’t say thank you.” Benedict was blunt and unflattering. “What could you do that a housekeeper could not do as well?”
“But poor little Vicky? And Gerard?”
“Poor little Vicky—that spoiled brat—has two adoring maids and a Mrs. Somebody who comes in daily to give her instruction. As for your young brother—he needs no one, as you are aware. They will do well enough.”
Ellen reflected that this was true. And—for that matter—her efforts on behalf of little Menispe de la Ferté had not been signally successful. Why should she be likely to do better with Vicky? She thought: supposing I had received this intelligence before I left Brussels? I would have gone straight to England. Would that have been for the best?
