The Girl from Paris

by Joan Aiken

  The fourth day of the council was concluded by a dinner party. Who had made the arrangements for this, Ellen did not know; she had heard Louise declare that nothing would persuade her to order an elaborate dinner for all those old monsters. But somebody had evidently attended to it, for the great dining room was set out with gala splendor; Ellen allowed Menispe to peep in at the gold dinner service, the elaborate epergnes piled with fruit, dishes encircled by wreaths of roses, and the Venetian chandeliers casting rainbow sparks from their colored pendants.

  “Why cannot I stay up to see the dinner?” Menispe demanded.

  “You would become bored soon enough. Besides, with your sore jaw, you can only eat gruel,” Ellen reminded her. “Your turn to sit here will come later, never fear! You will be having your coming-out ball in this room, doubtless.”

  “But when? How long to wait?”

  “Not long. The time will soon pass.”

  Staring at the huge, white-shrouded table, the double row of empty damask-backed chairs, Ellen suddenly shivered; in spite of its festive furnishings, the silent room seemed somber, oppressive, as if laid out for a wake.

  “Come, little one; it is high time you were in bed.”

  But when Véronique arrived to undress her, Menispe clung to Ellen with unwonted tenacity.

  “Do not leave me, mademoiselle. Stay, don’t go!”—boring her flaxen head into the crook of Ellen’s arm.

  “It is all the strange folk about the house,” said Véronique, looking down at the child compassionately. “Young ones are like animals, change upsets them.” And indeed Menispe seemed like some small, only half-domesticated creature that would never be wholly accustomed to human ways.

  “I will come and play cat’s cradle when you are in bed,” promised Ellen, and on this understanding Menispe allowed herself to be borne away. But later, when Ellen went into her bedroom, she was already asleep, curled up like a dormouse under the blue quilt.

  Ellen was still standing, meditatively regarding the child, when Goton, Louise’s maid, came in search of her.

  “Mademoiselle Pagette, Monsieur le Comte has sent a message that he will be greatly obliged if you can come to the Comtesse’s chamber and give your advice. Poor Madame has one of her bad migraines; she is in shocking pain.”

  “Well, I will come, of course,” said Ellen. “But I don’t know what Monsieur le Comte expects me to do. I am no doctor.”

  Following Goton through the lengthy passages to the other wing, Ellen reflected that it was hardly surprising Louise had a headache; such a battery of distinguished relatives-in-law would be enough to afflict anybody.

  Arrived at the bedside, she realized that “headache” was a completely inadequate term to describe the condition: ghastly pale, with black circles under her eyes, writhing, sweating, moaning, retching, Louise was plainly in acute agony. Two scared-looking maids were taking turns to apply ice packs to her brow and smelling salts to her nose—which operations were rendered difficult because she continually threw herself from side to side in the beautiful Régence bed.

  “Has her doctor been sent for?” demanded Ellen, appalled at this spectacle.

  “Bien sûr, Dr. Ricord has seen her; he says it is merely one of her usual spells, perhaps a little worse than usual; he has prescribed ergot of rye.”

  “But—poor lady! It is atrocious that she should suffer so!”

  The maids shrugged. “It is God’s will,” said one.

  At this point Raoul, already in evening dress, hurried into the room. From the vaguely surprised, observant glances he threw about him as he crossed the room, Ellen guessed that he seldom entered this apartment. At the sight of his wife’s affliction he turned pale; it was evident that he had suspected her illness to be a mere pretext for avoiding the family dinner, but now realized he had misjudged her.

  “Ah—poor Louise, my poor girl,” he muttered hoarsely.

  At the sound of his voice, Louise opened her streaming bloodshot eyes and glared at him through the slits.

  “You brought this on me!” she gasped vindictively, and thrust herself away from him to the far side of the bed, moaning, “Oh, God! I feel as if men with axes were splitting my skull!”

  “She must have laudanum—something to dull the pain!” exclaimed Raoul.

  “The doctor said it was not necessary,” objected Goton.

  “Well, the doctor is a fool. I am sure she should have it.”

  “Oh, go away, you brute!” shrieked Louise. “I do not care what you think. Only get out of my room.”

  As the maids, too, were giving him hostile looks, Raoul withdrew to the doorway, summoning Ellen to him with a gesture of his head.

  “Do you think you could persuade her to take some laudanum?” he asked when she joined him. “Ricord is such a pigheaded ass—I believe he thinks it is woman’s role to suffer; and I am very much afraid that Louise is bent on extracting all the suffering she can from her situation.”

  “I doubt if she will listen to me—perhaps Mademoiselle de Rhetorée—?”

  He shook his head. “Goton tells me that she and Louise have had a violent quarrel. I am afraid this also must have contributed to her condition.”

  “Well, I will try to persuade her,” said Ellen doubtfully. “But I am afraid that my words do not carry much weight with her. She ought not to suffer like this, though—it is dreadful.”

  “Poor girl,” he murmured again. “It is all too hard on her. I thought she might have been feigning an attack to avoid the dinner—but I see it is not so. Now I am without a hostess—well, it cannot be helped.” Impulsively, diffidently, he turned to Ellen. “I suppose you would not aid me in this impasse, Miss Paget—act as hostess for me, just for the evening?”

  She was utterly astonished.

  “No, indeed I would not, Comte! It would be wholly ineligible. I am not acquainted with your family—and they would be utterly scandalized, I am sure, to find your governess presiding. Think of the speculations it would give rise to,” she added, blushing. “Put the idea out of your mind! But I will be glad to stay with the Countess and help her in any way I can.”

  Without looking to see how he received this rebuff, she left him and returned to the bedside. She noticed that Goton, who had been near enough to hear the exchange, gave her a measured, frowning glance, and was noticeably cool in her manner for some time thereafter. But since Ellen’s practical wit and experience of sick-nursing in the rue St. Pierre made her a much more useful assistant than the two maids, who were scared, clumsy Norman girls, they were presently dismissed, and Goton’s attitude to Ellen gradually thawed. They took turns in applying the ice packs to the sufferer’s head, warming her feet with a hot brick, and employing what means they could to relieve her agony. At last, when Louise was almost fainting from pain, it was found possible to administer a few drops of laudanum, and by degrees she sank into a heavy sleep, frequently disturbed by moans of distress, or muttered broken exclamations. “Oh, it is infamous!” she gasped. “They are choking me! They are starving me!”

  “No, no, my lady, they will not do that!” soothed Goton. “Now, try to sleep, and forget all about it—see, old Goton is here to look after you.”

  When Louise had sunk into a deeper slumber and slept for half an hour without disturbance, Ellen softly suggested that Goton should try to get some sleep on a divan. “For I am afraid she may wake later, when the effect of the drug has worn off, and then you will be needed. Meanwhile, I will sit beside her.”

  Reluctant at first, Goton finally agreed, and retired to the dressing room.

  Ellen picked up a copy of Dumas’s Le Fils Naturel which lay on the inlaid marble dressing table, and sat quietly down at the bedside.

  Time passed. Very distantly, as if from another planet, she could hear when the dinner party broke up, and the carriages of the departing guests clip-clopped away into the night. Sh
ortly after midnight, Raoul scratched at the door and cautiously put his head round to ask how his wife did.

  “She has slept now for a couple of hours,” whispered Ellen. “Let us hope that her pain is abating. The longer she sleeps, the better.”

  He crossed to the bedside and stared somberly at the sleeping figure.

  “Regrettably,” he murmured, “the situation that caused her pain will still be there when she wakes.”

  Ellen could have slapped him for his thoughtlessness. He had spoken softly, but some echo of his voice seemed to penetrate his wife’s slumber. She opened her eyes and regarded him. Her features composed into a mask. The faint thread of voice in which she spoke was filled with malice.

  “Still here? Enjoying your triumph?” Her gaze shifted to Ellen. “Ah, I had not observed you, Miss Paget. How stupid of me not to realize that it was a conspiracy. You were in league together to replace me. What could be more natural? Camille was right…” For a moment her face contorted in a grimace of pain, of grief. Then she said acidly, “Kind Miss Paget, so obliging, so feminine—and poor deserted Raoul, with his penchant for les Anglaises—”

  “Take no notice, she is half delirious,” muttered Raoul. And, to his wife, “Be silent, Louise, pull yourself together, you know that you are talking mischievous rubbish. Miss Paget is nothing to me, nor I to her. If you were not—”

  “Oh, hush!” whispered Ellen urgently. “She is feverish, do not try to argue with her now. Her face is all flushed—wait, madame, while I refill the ice pack. And now, try to sip a little water. Ah, here is Goton—”

  She was startled at the maid’s closeness, and wondered how much she had heard. But her face remained impassive and she merely said, “Do you go and rest now, mademoiselle. I can see that my mistress has passed the crisis. Thanks to you I have now had sufficient sleep, and can now nurse her alone.”

  Ellen was dubious.

  “You are certain, Goton? You will send word if you want me again?”

  “Assuredly, mademoiselle. If I want you—I will send.” Goton’s black eyes remained unreadable. She added drily, “Good night, mademoiselle. Good night, Monsieur le Comte.”

  Thus dismissed, Ellen and Raoul quitted the room. He went with her as far as the main stairhead and, hesitating there, suggested, “Would you not care for a cordial? Something to make you sleep? I am afraid this has been a most trying vigil for you—”

  “No, no, it was nothing. And no cordial, I thank you,” Ellen told him hastily. “I am well used to sick-nursing. At the school in Brussels—”

  “As for my wife’s accusations—I am more sorry than I can say—”

  “Please, Comte, I beg you! Think nothing of it. She was in a fever, she rambled—when she wakes, she will probably have forgotten what she said. At such times, people speak nonsense.”

  But, Ellen thought to herself, at such times people tend to say what they secretly believe.

  “She was deeply distressed, you see, by the outcome of the family council. It was decided that she must give up these literary salons—and must retire to my chateau in Normandy, for a year at least—lead a life of domesticity—”

  Ellen gasped. Poor Louise, she thought in horror; no wonder she was half distracted by pain and frustration. And a quarrel with Germaine, as well. But what tyranny, to impose such a restriction on the wretched girl. How can she ever bear it? And how can he condone it?

  She raised perplexed eyes to Raoul, who said, “Yes, I know what you are thinking. It is a kind of despotism. But I am subject to it also. Ours is a large, wealthy, and ancient family, you see; we have the line, the inheritance, to consider, not merely our own selves.” He added miserably, “I should never, never have married her. English—Protestant—it was utter folly.”

  Since Ellen heartily concurred in this view, she could think of nothing to say, except “I will bid you good night, monsieur. You need rest too.”

  “Let me at least thank you for your kindness and forbearance.” He held out his hand; a little reluctantly, Ellen put hers into it. He looked so young, distracted, and forlorn—not in the least like the tyrannical head of a wealthy, ancient, and noble family—that her heart was wrung for him.

  “Good night, then.”

  But to her utter dismay he drew her close and, before she could pull herself away, rested his head, like an exhausted child, on her shoulder. His arms went round her.

  “Oh, how tired of it all I am,” he muttered. “Oh, how much I wish those things she was thinking were true!”

  “Monsieur, you forget yourself,” said Ellen. Gently but firmly she disengaged herself from his embrace, and slipped away in the direction of her own room. Not far away, she heard a door close softly. She could not escape the uncomfortable conviction that someone had been watching them.

  * * *

  Next afternoon Ellen was occupied in teaching Menispe to press flowers when a maid came to say that Madame la Comtesse intended driving out to pay a round of calls, and wished her daughter to accompany her. Amazed at this summons, Ellen went downstairs to the courtyard with a hastily tidied Menispe. Louise, looking wax-pale and heavy-eyed, but elegantly dressed in creamy muslin and a huge hat smothered with white and gold roses, sat already in the carriage, impatiently tapping her card case on the leather armrest.

  “Are you really well enough to go out, Countess? And to take charge of Menispe—after last night?” began Ellen, troubled at her appearance.

  “Oh, do not you begin now, my dear creature.” Louise gave an irritable trill of laughter. Her voice was high and forced. “I am always in fine fettle after one of my attacks; quite another person, I assure you. And I am anxious to ask the advice of my dear Clarkey about this exile the la Fertés have seen fit to inflict on me. Clarkey is always demanding to see Menispe, she dotes on children. If Aunt Paulina were not still in Etretat I would consult her too—”

  “You will not keep Menispe out too long? She is still not quite the thing after that visit to the dentist.” Really it was of Menispe’s mother that Ellen was thinking; she was dismayed by Louise’s appearance.

  “Don’t fly into a fuss, I will take the very best possible care of her. I am her mother, after all!” Louise’s mouth curved down in the familiar unamused smile. “Come, child,” she said. “Miss Paget deserves the afternoon off—no doubt she can find many pleasant ways of employing herself!”

  Deeply troubled at the sound of that high-pitched laughter, Ellen waited while the reluctant Menispe was lifted into the carriage and the horses trotted out of the courtyard.

  Because she did not wish to sit indoors with her thoughts, she, too, put on a hat and set off to stroll about Paris. The afternoon was gray, sultry, and oppressive; thunder muttered over the heights of Montmartre. Ellen bought a scarf she did not need at the Bon Marché, and a fifteen-franc novel at a circulating library, where she read for a while in the cabinet de lecture; she drank a citron pressé in the rue de la Paix, and watched the workmen erecting triumphal arches, huge golden Victories garlanded with crowns of laurel. These were to celebrate the termination of the Franco-Austrian War; but, as Ellen had gathered from articles in the Revue des Deux Mondes, there was little cause for rejoicing. Disraeli, in England, had ironically called the war “a magnificent spectacle, which only cost a hundred thousand lives and 50 million sterling.”

  Who starts a war? Ellen wondered. Are wars planned deliberately? Does some statesman sit down, with pencil and drawing board, deciding, “At this point, a war will be to our advantage; we will spend so many lives and so many francs”? Are there rules to be followed? Men seem to feel the need for rules. They are never comfortable without them—rules for the government of nations, of families, of wealth, of inheritance, of wives.

  I am not sure that I wish to marry, mused Ellen, sipping her citron pressé; from what I have seen of it, I doubt if marriage would suit me. But then—averting her eyes from th
e flirtatious glances of two young dandies idling past her table—the lot of a female on her own is so difficult. What sharp, hard faces Frenchmen have, she thought, as the ogling pair once more strolled by: long, bony cheeks, stiff beards, sharp mustaches—they all seem to be trying to look as much like the Emperor as possible. Hardly a lovable race—yet there is no denying their intelligence.

  To live alone, thought Ellen, you need the courage of Alexander, the cunning and circumspection of a Jesuit. To live without love—is that possible? Madame Dudevant does—but she has it both ways, the love and the independence. Am I as brave as that? Would I have the courage to reject love—if I felt that it involved too much servitude?

  She recalled Patrice Bosschère saying so urgently, “I need you beside me. If I had you, what might I not accomplish!” But was it love he had in mind? She thought of Raoul de la Ferté, last night, leaning his head exhaustedly, confidingly, on her shoulder. When they had talked in the library, or about Dickens, she had felt for him a kind of comfortable, easy warmth, as she might for a dear friend, a dear brother. Not, however, as she felt toward Benedict! But last night that warmth had quickened to a dangerous urgency of tenderness, frightening her, giving her a wholly unexpected glimpse of her own capacity to feel.

  God knows, thought Ellen, that Louise, poor thing, had no grounds for her spiteful suggestions; but from now on I must be on my guard. The very fact of her having made such an accusation is enough to lodge the idea in one’s mind. No more tête-à-têtes with the Comte. But, presumably, if Louise is to be exiled in Normandy, Menispe and I will accompany her. And doubtless Raoul will remain in Paris, leading his own life.

  Ruefully she acknowledged to herself how much she would miss the Paris life. And how in the world would Louise fill her days among the cows and apple orchards? Working at the Treatise on the Golden Age of Gynautocracy? Would that suffice for the loss of her salon?

  The two young men were passing at ever more frequent intervals, becoming bolder in their glances; Ellen stood up, opened her parasol as a screen against them, and walked briskly away. None too soon: warm heavy drops of rain, large as sous, had begun to fall on the pavement, and the purple storm clouds were almost overhead; she would hardly reach the rue de l’Arbre Vert before the storm began.