The Girl from Paris

by Joan Aiken

  “Because it is the truth; and it is for your own sake.”

  “Leave my presence! Get out! Think yourself lucky I do not turn you out of doors.”

  Ellen left the room collectedly. I have said what I set out to, at all events, she thought; I must only hope that some part of it will sink in. If only I have not done more to push him into that woman’s arms!

  She ran up to Gerard’s room, resolved, now she knew the cause, to break the silence into which he had retreated during the past weeks, and scratched at his door.

  “Who’s that?” she heard his surly voice.

  “It’s I, Ellen.”

  “What do you want?”

  Despite his unwelcoming tone she opened the door and went in. He was slumped on the bed, with his head in his hands. Ignoring his scowl, she sat on a straight-backed chair and said, with a faint smile, “I need encouragement and sympathy. I have had such a set-to with Papa, and all for nothing, I fear, over that poor man Matthew Bilbo.”

  His head came up. “How did you come to know about Matthew Bilbo?”

  “Oh, people in the town are saying how unfair Papa has been.”

  “So he has—confoundedly unfair! Bilbo is one of the best, most harmless fellows in the world; indeed I do believe he is a kind of saint. It was downright wicked of Papa to do as he did. And if he thinks that will make me more inclined to obey him, he is quite out. I shall do all in my power to go against him.”

  Ellen sighed. She said, “Tell me about Bilbo. He seems an odd friend for you. He is so much older, surely? How did you meet?”

  “Oh,” said Gerard impatiently, “Dr. Bendigo made us known to one another, one time when we were returning from Chichester and ran into the doctor on top of the Down, where he was visiting a hurt quarry hand. We met Bilbo with his sheep; the doctor, knowing of my interest in botany, said that Matthew knew a great deal about birds and fungi and orchids. Other things too, as I found out! He learned to read in jail—the chaplain taught him—he is a remarkable man, Ellie! So good and so humble, and so truly original in all his thoughts and conversation!”

  The boy’s face had lit up. Ellen was amazed at the transformation. If Papa could see him like this! she thought.

  “Did you know that Eustace has given Bilbo work, and a cottage on Lavant Down?”

  “No, has he? That is like Eustace. He is a good fellow. But”—Gerard’s face fell—“that is too far away for me to call on him. I could ride Captain up to the top of Duncton Down and back in one evening. But Lavant is out of the question.”

  “I asked Papa if he could not see his way to have Noakes reinstate Bilbo. But he would not consider it.”

  “No, I daresay,” muttered Gerard. “Once Papa takes up a position, nothing will shift him.”

  “If only you were on happier terms with him—could you not work harder, to please him? Talk about what interests him?”

  “I do work hard,” said Gerard irritably. “But I won’t pretend an interest in politics. The truth is that Papa just wants me to be him over again—only successful, where he failed; and I shall never be that.”

  “He is so lonely! And his loneliness is driving him into the company of Mrs. Pike.”

  “I wish him joy of her! Let him marry her! Next year I’ll be at Cambridge, and then I’ll never come to Petworth again… Why don’t you talk to him more?”

  “He does not care for my conversation. Indeed, just now, he was within an ace of turning me out of the house.”

  “I can’t think why you stay here, when you need not Still, it was good of you to approach him about Bilbo,” said Gerard, in a more friendly tone than he had yet used, “though I could have told you it would be useless.”

  * * *

  It took several weeks for Luke’s manner toward his daughter to return to anything like civility, let alone amiability. For the most part, during that time, he ignored her. If she were so tactless as to ask him a direct question, he addressed his reply to Gerard or the housekeeper. His glance, when it accidentally rested on her, was filled with a kind of morose bewilderment, as if he really did not know how to treat her. It was plain, however, that her calm, watchful presence, and the obvious independent operation of her judgment, resent it though he might, had reduced, or slowed, his attentions to Mrs. Pike. His behavior to the latter displayed more caution and reserve. The housekeeper for her part showed her awareness of the agent to whom she owed this setback by increased sharpness, verging on downright hostility, toward Ellen. The latter bore all this with what fortitude she could muster. Lonely and depressed, she found comfort in Vicky’s educational progress, in visits to Aunt Fanny, and the small but definite improvement in her relations with Gerard.

  The Bishop had kept his promise and sent Ellen a pony. This animal, shaggy and unimpressive but strong and biddable, greatly extended her sphere of activity; she could ride on the Downs with Gerard, and visit friends in farms and cottages as far afield as Midhurst, Pulborough, or Wisborough Green. Unfortunately an early and severe winter setting in soon curtailed these excursions and also prevented Gerard’s illicit sorties to make music for the morris dancers.

  The house, during those winter months, was gloomy indeed. Ellen sometimes looked back to her life in Paris with a kind of incredulity. Did I really talk to Gautier, Baudelaire, Flaubert, Turgenev? she wondered. I was free to come and go, I lived in luxury, my work was congenial—yet I seem to have spent most of the time in a fret of anxiety because I could not like poor Louise. Ah, if only I had tried harder! Let me not make that mistake again!

  After these moods of recollection and self-condemnation she would increase her efforts to make some contact with her father, trying to find any subject on which he was prepared to converse, asking questions about his youth, and the early years of his marriage to her mother. He responded to these efforts slowly and ungraciously; but he did thaw a little; and Mrs. Pike watched with a jealous and antagonistic eye.

  “I wonder, Miss Paget, that you disturb your pa with subjects that can only distress him,” the housekeeper remarked acidly one day, when Ellen had been drawing out her father on the progress of his early studies, and comparing them with Gerard’s, in the hope of persuading Luke to regard his son with a more indulgent eye. “It would be more to the purpose if you could persuade your brother to pay more heed to your father’s wishes.”

  A year ago, Ellen might have retorted, “Mind your own business, ma’am!” Now she diplomatically replied, “Why, ma’am, you know what sons are, neither to hold nor to bind! I understand that you have a son—pray tell me, how old is he? And what is his profession? Will he be coming to visit you? Where does he reside?”

  To her surprise this random broadside appeared to have struck an extremely sensitive target. Mrs. Pike’s complexion assumed a strangely blotchy hue, with patches of red and white alternating; her opaque blue eyes glazed with rage, or alarm; she snapped, “And who told you about my son, pray?”

  Luke glanced up in surprise from the newspaper which he had resumed reading as soon as Ellen had left off questioning him.

  “A son, ma’am? You have a son, Mrs. Pike? I was not aware of that.”

  “Oh—my son is overseas,” the housekeeper said quickly. “Young men, you know, will go off to seek their fortune, no matter how their poor widowed mothers beg them to stop at home—”

  The sharp, challenging gaze that remained fixed on Ellen while she said this seemed to dare the latter to dispute the story. She repeated, “Who spoke to you of my son, Miss Paget?”

  “It was old Miss Fothergill.”

  “Oh, her.” Mrs. Pike appeared to relax. “Poor old lady, she’s so feeble-witted you can’t credit a word she says. Of course, she never met my Sim—my son—but I used to speak of him—he having just gone abroad at that time and being much in my thoughts.”

  “What is his profession?” inquired Luke.

  “T
he engineering line—always interested in tools or machinery he was—went away to Brazil to build bridges. But, bless me, look at the time”—examining the watch at her belt. “I must bustle Sue about the tea, one has to be after them every minute of the day, or nothing gets done”—and she left the room.

  “Singular that she never mentioned her son before,” murmured Luke, half to himself. “But”—with a sigh—“if she finds the thought of him distressing, I can understand that.”

  He folded his paper and took himself off, oblivious of the tea which Mrs. Pike was hastening to prepare for him.

  Ellen looked after her father with a curious pang of sympathy. It was the first time she had heard him speak of another person’s feelings.

  * * *

  Five days later she received a small packet of mail from France. During all this time she had heard nothing from Germaine or the Comte de la Ferté; it was true that in her hasty departure she had left no forwarding address, but her direction could have been obtained from Lady Morningquest, and she had felt hurt and troubled at the lack of news.

  During her first two months in England she had found some solace in completing the translation of Germaine’s short novel, and sending it to Longmans, the publishers, with instructions to them to arrange payment, should they like the book, through M. Villedeuil. They had acknowledged receipt of the manuscript, and she had heard no more. But now a bulky packet came from Lady Morningquest, who enclosed a brief note: “My dear Ellen, you showed excellent good sense in returning to England, where I trust you are obtaining comfort and satisfaction from providing your Father with companionship.” Humph! thought Ellen. “The enclosed may be of interest to you,” Lady Morningquest continued. “I am also putting in some letters that were directed to you here. I have heard curious rumors from Brussels & think of removing Charlotte from the Pensionnat—she may do her London season this year as well as next. Benedict can escort her to England. You, doubtless, have your own correspondents in the rue St. Pierre. Yr. affec. godmother, Paulina M.”

  Since Ellen had heard no rumors from Brussels she could only speculate fruitlessly as to why Lady Morningquest should remove her daughter from Madame Bosschère’s establishment. Had the frivolity of Madame’s parties with young males in the cordoned corner given rise to public censure? Or Monsieur Patrice written a heretical treatise?

  Smiling at her unlikely guesses, Ellen unfolded the packet of papers, and found two letters addressed to herself, and a number of pages cut from Paris papers: Le Monde, Le Siècle—on which the name Raoul, Comte de la Ferté, instantly caught her eye.

  “Cries of an Anguished Husband,” ran one heading, and Ellen read on with horror. It seemed that the maid of Louise had found a bundle of letters written by Raoul to his wife, and had sold them to the press, doubtless for a handsome sum. “My dearest Love, for God’s sake give ear to my plea,” said one. “If the family succession means nothing to you, think of me! Think of my comfortless nights, my longing to be near you, to touch you, to adore you.” “Louise, Louise, you who are so sensitive, so swift to pick up literary allusions,” said another, “can you not use your fine intelligence to envisage what my life is like—freezing in outer darkness, suffering the Tantalus torture of your daily presence, your continual refusals? Turn to me again, I beg you, I beg you—soften that flintlike heart, do not condemn me to starve in misery for the rest of my life!”

  There were many letters in the same vein. Ellen snatched away her eyes in horror, feeling that she had committed an outrageous act in merely reading a few lines from them. It seemed a betrayal to witness these pitiful supplications. They seemed so different from the man she had known. Poor wretch, she thought, racked by sympathy, what he must suffer at having his words made public. He has such pride—has he not endured enough already?

  She pushed away the clippings as though they were filthy.

  One of the two letters was from the Hôtel Caudebec, and Ellen opened it hastily with trembling fingers. Surely Raoul would not have written to her? But the communication proved to be merely from Pondicheau, Raoul’s agent and man of business, sending her a note of hand for the amount of salary that had been owing when she left Paris, and a bonus payment for her secretarial assistance to the Princess Tanofski. The payment was extremely generous, which did not in the least allay Ellen’s bitter disappointment. Yet how could she possibly expect a letter from the Comte? Poor man, in his present state of wretchedness, was it likely that he would think of such a thing?

  The other letter, in elegant, familiar handwriting, on cheap yellow paper, was from Germaine.

  Couvent de Notre-Dame, Montfaucon, Ploëmel.

  My dear Callisto: Here, believe it or not, you find me among the Benedictines, in the forests of Brittany. I see you smile with surprise, but the good Sisters have used me with such forbearance, consideration, and bonté that already I am half reconciled to the religious life. I came here in the first place seeking retreat—concealment—sanctuary—but the ambience has proved so congenial that—even now I have no pressing need to remain—I find in myself small wish to return to the city.

  As you may have heard, the authorities are now satisfied that the miserable Louise did indeed take her own life and that of her doomed child. Raoul is exonerated, save from the blame and pity inevitably felt for a poor fool with no more sense than to marry someone who disliked him, and then persist in pestering her with his attentions long after she made her antipathy plain.

  I must confess I feel a touch of guilt, now, at the thought of his sufferings—Jeanne de Tourbey sent me some Paris papers with extracts from his letters—poor boy, it is hard to have such undignified, deplorable outpourings revealed to the public eye. But let us hope that, now he is an eligible widower, he will soon find consolation.

  I am to thank you, kind Callisto, for so reliably consigning my novel to the English publisher Longman. I had a very civil letter from him forwarded by Villedeuil; they will issue the book in three volumes, and they ask for another. When they pay me I shall instruct them to send you a translator’s fee. But—I ask myself—shall I write any more? I confess, I find myself strangely irresolute; I have completed the work on which I was engaged, but this conventual existence does not predispose one to literature. Heigh-ho, Callisto, what will become of me? Shall I end up a dévote, telling my beads, reading my missal, thinking of the unhappiness I have caused?

  And where are you, Callisto, I wonder? Somehow I imagine you back in England; but what will those Sussex peasants make of you, now that you are almost a Parisienne? Do not allow your faculties to wither away from lack of use! I miss your grave good sense and shrewd perceptions—alas for those invigorating tête-à-têtes! The dear religieuses here are replete with wisdom, but they are a little lacking in wit.

  Well, Callisto, I wonder, shall we ever meet again? Think of me sometimes, as I of you. C.

  This letter rendered Ellen decidedly melancholy. Despite the acrimony of their parting, and despite the disastrous role that Germaine had played in the la Fertés’ tragedy, Ellen could not bring herself to dislike the other girl, and had also missed their lively exchanges. What would Germaine, she wondered, make of this English existence? Would it bore her to distraction? What would she think of Mrs. Pike, of Luke, Gerard, the Valdoes, Lady Blanche? Or Aunt Fanny? And how would Germaine’s earthy common sense deal with the situation at the Hermitage?

  She wrote to Germaine, telling little of this, but mentioning that in two years she would be in command of a modest fortune. “So, if you do return to writing, and are ever in difficulties, do not forget that you have a friend in England.”

  Sighing, she carried her letter to the post—what a long way Brittany seemed!—and then took a walk in the valley below the Hermitage. A hard frost for several days had rendered horse exercise out of the question, and Vicky was confined to bed with a cold. Ellen, well wrapped in her warmest pelisse, scrambled down the hillside and took the p
ath that followed the windings of the brook, now swollen with melted snow, down to the Haslingbourne Mill, which had once, long ago, belonged to her great-great-uncle.

  Returning on the other side of the valley, across a brow of hill known as the Sheepdowns, she was annoyed to see, coming toward her, the thin, awkward figure of Mr. Wheelbird the attorney.

  She had met him hereabouts once or twice before, and he had explained, with a deprecating and self-conscious smile, that this was his route for returning home to late luncheon in the village of Byworth across the valley, where he resided with his widowed mother. Ellen thought it a strangely roundabout approach to Byworth, but if Mr. Wheelbird chose to take extra time from his duties at the lawyer’s office, it was no affair of hers—except that she was tired of running into him and being obliged to make civil responses to his remarks.

  He raised his hat eagerly with his usual air of nervous propitiation, nodding his head up and down, twitching a smile on and off his face as if uncertain of his right to maintain it there.

  “Dirty weather, ma’am—Miss Paget. But you—if I may say so—appear blooming as usual—you do not let the weather d-deter you from your constitutional.” Mr. Wheelbird tended to a slight stammer when he was nervous or excited. He appeared unusually so on the present occasion. To Ellen’s deep dismay he turned and accompanied her along her path. “There—there is a d-decidedly slippery portion of the track farther along, Miss P-Paget; allow me to escort you past it.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Wheelbird, but really there is no need. I am quite used to scrambling along this valley. And a tumble would not hurt me in the least, I am protected by this thick old pelisse.”

  Whereas Mr. Wheelbird, she noticed, was attired with unusual splendor. His trousers and waistcoat, which both looked brand-new, were in two different contrasting checks; he had a black coat, which was so very glossy and stiff that he walked in it with difficulty as if inside a drainpipe. His cravat was silk, and his tall hat shone as if it had just been carefully removed from the hatbox. Brilliant patent-leather shoes completed his toilet; altogether, he seemed oddly costumed for a walk along a muddy valley; but perhaps, thought Ellen, he had just been attending on some important client.