‘Go with the butler, Nan,’ said Grace. ‘I’ll be up as soon as I can.’
‘Yes, well, don’t keep Sigi too long, dear. He’s filthy after that train.’
Her words fell on air, Grace was pursuing husband and son into the shadows of the house and up the stairs. Somewhere a Chopin waltz was being played, but Grace did not consciously hear it, though she remembered it afterwards.
‘Wait, wait, Charles-Edouard,’ she cried. ‘Who is this Marquise?’
‘My grandmother.’
‘Charles-Edouard, dearest, stop one minute, I didn’t know you had a grandmother – oh, do stop and explain –’
‘There’s nothing to explain. In here.’ He held open a door for her. Grace walked into a huge room, dark and panelled, with a painted ceiling. Furniture was dotted about in it; like shrubs in a desert the pieces seemed to grow where they stood, following no plan of arrangement, and dotted about among them were human figures. There was an old man painting at an easel, an old lady at a piano playing the Chopin waltz, while another old lady, in the embrasure of a window, was deep in conversation with an ancient priest. She looked quickly round as the door opened, and then ran towards Grace.
‘So soon?’ she cried, ‘and nobody downstairs to meet you? It’s that wretched stable clock, always slow.’ She kissed Grace on both cheeks, and then again, saying, ‘A beauty! What a beauty! Well done, Charles-Edouard,’ she said, hugging him. ‘This is wonderful happiness, my child.’
Now there was a perfect hubbub of greetings and introductions. ‘Tante Régine – M. le Curé, how are you? Yes, yes, I quite realized that,’ said Charles-Edouard when M. le Curé began to explain that he had not been down in the village because M. Mignon was in charge of the welcome there. ‘Grace, this is M. de la Bourlie, and this is M. le Curé, Grace, who has been M. le Curé here – for how long?’
Madame de Valhubert said, ‘M. le Curé arrived here, a young priest, the same summer that I arrived, a young bride. We shall have seen sixty grape harvests together this year.’
Tante Régine became rather fidgety while her sister was speaking, and said to Grace in an aside, ‘But I am much younger, I was always the baby – fifteen – twenty years younger than Françoise.’
Their faces were the same, soft, white faces with black eyes, but while Madame de Valhubert’s was framed in soft white hair and her clothes were very much like those of a nun, Madame Rocher, painted and powdered, had her red hair cut in the latest way and wore such a beautiful, simple, desirable cotton dress that Grace could look at nothing else in the room.
‘Dear Tante Régine, I’m very much pleased to see you,’ said Charles-Edouard. ‘And Octave?’
Octave was her late husband’s nephew, the present holder of his title, whom Madame Rocher had brought up and then, because he bored her, had pushed into the army. The old Marquis had left her every penny of the enormous fortune which came to him through his mother, so she was able to behave in a very high-handed manner with his relations.
‘Oh poor Octave, no luck at all, as usual,’ said Madame Rocher. ‘He is still with his regiment, still only a captain. Of course, if it hadn’t been for this wretched war he would be at least a colonel by now.’
‘Hm. Hm,’ said Charles-Edouard, bursting with inward laughter. ‘And I, in spite of this wretched war, am a colonel, do you know that? Grandmother, did you know that I am a colonel?’
‘Yes, yes, we know a great deal about you here. Little Béguin, who was invalided home after the Libération, was full of your exploits.’
‘Indeed I did splendidly,’ said Charles-Edouard, laughing. ‘I am a colonel and I have a son – where is this son, by the way?’
He dragged Sigi out from behind a curtain, where he was hiding in a most unusual state of shyness.
‘Sigismond, come and kiss the hand of your ancestress. Now that you are a French boy we should like to see some manners, please.’
Sigi became quite scarlet with embarrassment, but the old lady, taking two boxes of sweets from a table, held them out to him and said, ‘You can kiss my hand another time, darling, but now choose which you’ll have, a chocolate or a marron glacé. A little bribery never spoils anything,’ she said to Charles-Edouard as Sigi carefully made his choice. ‘Well?’
‘Well, I do love chocolate, certainly I do, but I suppose I ought to choose the one with the silver paper on account of the poor lepers.’
‘What, my child?’
‘You see Nanny – well you haven’t met her yet – she keeps a silver-paper ball, and when it weighs a pound she sends it up and one poor leper can live on that – oh for years, probably. They hardly need anything at all Nanny says, quite contented with a handful of rice from time to time, but it’s ages now since Nanny sent up, silver paper is so terribly rare in these days. She will be pleased.’
‘But this child has saintly thoughts!’ cried Madame de Valhubert. ‘M. le Curé, did you understand? The little one is already planning for the lepers. It is wonderful, so young. How he does look like you, Charles-Edouard, the image of what you were at that age, though I don’t remember that you had such gratifying preoccupations.’
‘Yes, isn’t he the very picture,’ said Charles-Edouard, ‘but I’m afraid he’s not as brilliant as I was. Now if you will excuse us perhaps I’ll show Grace the rest of the house before luncheon, and take St François Xavier up to his nursery.’
Outside on the staircase, Nanny was hovering with a face of leaden reproach. She pounced upon Sigi and hurried him off, muttering her recitative under her breath. She was very slightly in awe of Charles-Edouard, and would only let herself go, Grace knew, when alone with her. The words ‘unbearably close, here’ were just distinguishable, a look of terrifying malice flashed in the direction of Charles-Edouard, and she was gone. Grace absolutely dreaded the day when she would be obliged to have it out with him about Nanny. She had known, as a child, that her father and mother used to have it out at intervals, until her mother, by dying, had saddled Sir Conrad with Nanny for ever. She gave Charles-Edouard a nervous, laughing look, but he did not notice it; he put his arm round her waist, and they went slowly up the stairs.
Then she went back to what she had been wondering as they came out of the drawing-room. ‘But why didn’t you tell me about your grandmother – well, really, all these people?’
‘I have one very firm rule in life,’ he said, ‘which is never to talk to people about other people they have never seen. It is very dull, since people are only interesting when you know them, and furthermore it can lead to misunderstandings. You and my grandmother, having no preconceived ideas about each other –’
‘You haven’t got a wife hidden away in some other room, I hope?’
‘No wife.’
‘Oh good. But of course it’s just like in Rebecca. By degrees I shall find out all about your past.’
‘Oh my past! It’s such a long time ago now.’
‘So tell me more, now I’ve seen them. Who is the old man?’
‘M. de la Bourlie? He is my grandmother’s lover.’
‘Her lover?’ Grace was very much startled. ‘Isn’t she rather old to have a lover?’
‘Has age to do with love?’ Charles-Edouard looked so much surprised that Grace said,
‘Oh well – I only thought. Anyway, perhaps there’s nothing in it.’
He roared with laughter, saying, ‘How English you are. But M. de la Bourlie has visited my grandmother every single day for forty-six years, and in such a case you may be sure that there is always love.’
‘He doesn’t live here, too?’
‘No. He has a beautiful house in Aix. He generally comes over in the afternoon, but today, of course, he has come early, dying of curiosity to see l’Anglaise. They all must be, we shall have the whole neighbourhood over. It will be very dull. Never mind.’
‘Why don’t they marry?’ said Grace.
‘Who? Oh my
grandmother. Well, but poor Madame de la Bourlie.’
‘Poor her anyway. In England, when there is a long love affair like that people always end by marrying.’
‘And in America if you hold a woman’s hand you are expected to go round next day with the divorce papers. The Anglo-Saxons are very fond of marriage, it is very strange.’
‘I’ve never seen a pale green wig before.’
‘He’s worn that wig ever since I was a little boy. He has been a tremendous lady-killer in his time, wig and all.’
‘And when I am old like your grandmother, will you love me still?’
‘It depends.’
‘How horrid. Depends on what?’
‘It all depends, entirely, on you.’
‘Charles-Edouard, was the reason you didn’t tell me about your grandmother because you thought I wouldn’t like the idea of sharing my house with another woman?’
Charles-Edouard looked immensely surprised. ‘It never occurred to me for a single minute,’ he said. ‘It’s not your house, exactly, but a family house, you know. But we shall hardly ever be here.’
‘Oh! I thought it was my new home?’
‘One of them. Our real home is in Paris, and there my grandmother, though she lives in the house, has a separate establishment. You will love her, you know. For one thing, French people (and you are French now) always love their relations, and then my grandmother is a saint.’
‘Yes,’ said Grace, ‘I see that. I know I shall. It was so charming the way she gave those chocolates to Sigi when she saw he didn’t want to kiss her hand. But how sad, Charles-Edouard, to have this lovely house and not to live in it?’
‘Oh dearest Grace, for living the country is really impossible. It is too dull. I am obliged to come down here on business, but I could never never live here.’
‘What business?’
‘I must explain that, whereas in England the country is for pleasure and the town for business, here it is the exact opposite. We French have all our pleasure in Paris, where we have nothing to do except amuse ourselves, but we work really hard in the country. I have a lot of work when I am here, local business, since I am the mayor, and much family business, looking after my property.’
They had reached a wide landing, arranged like a room, with old-fashioned, chintz furniture. Two great windows from floor to ceiling were open upon an expanse of pale blue sky. Charles-Edouard led her through one of them on to a balcony, and, waving at the green acres far below, he said,
‘There grows the wealth of the Valhubert family.’
‘D’you mean that vegetable? But what is it? I was wondering.’
‘Vegetable indeed! Have you never been in the country in France before! How strange. These are vineyards.’
‘No!’ said Grace. She had supposed all her life that vineyards were covered with pergolas, such as, in Surrey gardens, support Miss Dorothy Perkins, heavy with bunches of hot-house grapes, black for red wine, white for champagne. Naboth’s vineyard, in the imagination of Grace, was Naboth’s pergola, complete with crazy paving underfoot.
However she did not explain all this to Charles-Edouard, but merely said, ‘I’ve never seen one before. I thought they would be different, somehow.’
Grace’s bedroom was at the top of the house. It was a large, white-panelled room with many windows, from most of which, so high up was it, so hanging in the firmament, nothing was visible but sky. But on one side two French windows opened on to a tiny garden of box hedges and standard roses, which looked like a stage set forming part of the room itself.
‘Very English,’ said Charles-Edouard, ‘you will feel at home here.’
It had been arranged by his mother with old-fashioned chintz and embroidered white muslin.
‘The garden!’ said Grace. ‘I never saw anything so lovely.’
‘Every floor of this house has a terrace. It is built on the side of a hill, you see. Here are your bathroom and dressing-room, and here are my rooms. So we are all alone together.’
‘Literally in heaven,’ said Grace, with a happy sigh.
‘Now perhaps I’ll take you to the nursery; we go down again and up this little staircase. Here we are.’
‘Oh, what a lovely nursery – isn’t it lovely, Nan, much the biggest we’ve ever had, and so light – and what a view!’
This was Grace’s technique with Nanny. She would open an offensive of enthusiasm, hoping to overcome and silence the battery of complaints before Nanny could begin firing them off. It almost never worked, she could see it not working now, though for the moment she was shielded by the presence of Charles-Edouard. Nanny remained silent and went on with what she was at, grimly unpacking toys from a hamper.
‘I’ll come back,’ said Charles-Edouard. ‘I want a word with Ange-Victor.’
Grace’s heart sank, but she rattled bravely on. ‘You’ve got a garden, too, isn’t it delightful? I love it being surrounded by those pretty red roofs against the sky, like Kate Greenaway. Look at the plants growing out of them, what are they, I wonder? Doesn’t it all smell delicious? I long for you to see my bedroom; it is so pretty. Tell you what, darling, I’ll get you a garden chair, then you’ll be able to sit out here of an evening.’
Nanny looked over her shoulder to make sure that Charles-Edouard had gone, and then spoke. ‘Horribly draughty I should think, with all those roofs. Smutty, too, I dare say. Aren’t the stairs awful? I shan’t be able to manage them many times a day, in this heat. Well, I’ve been trying to unpack, but there’s nowhere to put anything, you know – shame, really – no nice shelves for our toys. No mantelpieces, either, for my photographs and the ornaments. Funny sort of rooms, aren’t they? Not very homey. I’d like to show you the bathroom and lavatory, dear – nothing but a cupboard – no window at all, really most insanitary – it would never be allowed at home.’
‘How fascinating,’ said Grace, ‘look, it’s built in the thickness of the wall, this big bathroom.’
‘Perhaps it may be. Then what is that guitar-shaped vase for, I wonder? Oh, well, it’ll do to put the things to soak. Not very nice, is it? Leading out of our bedroom like that?’
‘Never mind, in this lovely weather you can leave everything wide open – it’s quite different from England.’
‘Different!’ a deep sniff, ‘I should say it is.’
‘Look at the swing! How amusing! That will quite make up to Sigi for leaving his rocking-horse behind.’
‘Yes, well it’s a funny place for a swing, in our bedroom.’
‘It’s all so huge, isn’t it? And like being out of doors, with these great windows everywhere. Heavenly, really. Look, here’s a cupboard, darling – the size of a room, too. Hadn’t you noticed it? You can put everything here – and see, there’s a light for it. That is nice.’
‘Just smell inside, dear – horribly musty, I’m afraid. Then I was wanting to speak to you about these roofs – the little monkey will be up on them in no time. My goodness! I knew it! Come down this instant, Sigi, what did I tell you? You are not to climb on those roofs – what d’you think you’re doing? It’s most dangerous.’
‘I’m Garth on the mountains of the moon.’
Charles-Edouard reappeared, saying, ‘Oh, do be Napoleon crossing the Alps. This Garth is really too dull. The roofs are quite safe, Nanny, I lived on them when I was his age, mountaineering and exploring. I must get out my old Journal des Voyages for him, since I suppose he is rather young for Jules Verne?’
Nanny having retreated into the nursery, ‘don’t know how you can stand the glare,’ Charles-Edouard pulled at the neck of Grace’s cotton dress and implanted a kiss on her shoulder.
‘Ugh! You soppy things,’ said Sigismond, ‘I don’t like all this daft kissing stuff.’
‘You’ll like it all right one day,’ said Charles-Edouard. ‘That big bell means luncheon time. Good appetite, Sigi.’
As they went bac
k through the nursery a man-servant was laying the table on a thick, white linen tablecloth. ‘Good appetite, Nanny,’ said Charles-Edouard. Nanny did not reply. She was looking with stupefied disapproval at a bottle of wine which had just been put down in front of her.
5
Very hungry, accustomed to English post-war food, Grace thought the meal which followed the most delicious she had ever eaten. The food, the wine, the heat, and the babel of French talk, most of which was quite incomprehensible to her untuned ear, induced a half-drunk, entirely happy state of haziness. When, after nearly two hours, the party rose from the table, she was floating on air. Everybody wandered off in different directions, and Charles-Edouard announced that he was going to be shut up in the library for the afternoon with his tenants and the agent.
‘Will you be happy?’ he said, stroking Grace’s hair and laughing at her for being, as he could see, so tipsy.
‘Oh I’m sleepy and happy and hot and sleepy and drunk and happy and sleepy. It’s too too blissful being so drunk and happy.’
‘Then go to sleep, and when I’ve finished we’ll do whatever you like. Motor down to the sea if you like, and bathe. I’m sleepy myself, but the régisseur has convened all these people to see me – they’ve been waiting too long already – I must go to them, so there it is. See you presently.’
‘All right. I’ll go and have a little word with Nanny and then a lovely hot sleep. Oh the weather! Oh the bliss of everything! Oh how happy I am!’
Charles-Edouard gave her a very loving look as he went off. He thought he was going to like her even more in France than in England, and was well satisfied to have come back accompanied by this happy beauty.
Alas for the hot, tipsy sleep! Nanny sobered and woke her up all right, her expression alone was a wave of icy water. Grace did not even bother to say ‘Wasn’t the luncheon delicious? Did you enjoy it?’ She just stood and meekly waited for the wave to break over her head.
‘Well, dear, we’ve had nothing to eat since you saw us, nothing whatever. Course upon course of nasty greasy stuff smelling of garlic – a month’s ration of meat, yes, but quite raw you know – shame, really – I wasn’t going to touch it, let alone give it to Sigi, poor little mite.’
The Penguin Complete Novels of Nancy Mitford Page 118
