Another horrible crisis.
‘Non, madame,’ he said, with a forced unnatural smile.
Pierre now spoke for the first time.
‘Ursule, have you heard from René lately?’
‘Yes,’ said Ursule, for once without her giggle. ‘He wrote to say—’
‘Pierre,’ interrupted his mother, ‘how often have I told you that it is very ill-bred to discuss at table a person of whom the other guests know nothing. If you wish to talk about this René you can do so afterwards.’
At this moment Martin, sorry for his gentle instructor, who was being thus unmercifully baited, forgot his shyness and haltingly asked Pierre if he liked tennis. Although, to Martin’s embarrassment, the whole family stopped talking and eating to listen to what he said, Pierre answered him so kindly that he became valorous, and wallowed and plunged in the French language till the end of lunch. When coffee had been drunk, to the accompaniment of a disquisition from Madame Boulle on the superiority of French coffee to all other coffee, and the extreme expense of good coffee in France, Martin made his excuses and left for home. Pierre came with him to the door. He again looked as if he wanted to say something, so Martin waited. Again he seemed to think better of it, but said in English, which he spoke as fluently as the rest of his family:
‘It was nice of you, Martin, to come to my rescue. You are just the sort we want.’
He went into the house and Martin went home, puzzled and interested. But as he changed into his tennis things, his fear of the family as a whole began to grow again. Suppose Madame lectured his grandfather as she did the professor. Suppose, which was very likely, Ursule giggled all the time. Suppose Jean-Claude came in his shorts and socks. Thank heaven David wasn’t here to jeer at Martin in his self-inflicted torment. In a frenzy of annoyance Martin took a book and went across the garden to the churchyard, determined to see his guests without being seen. The vicarage, a modern house which Mr Banister had obtained permission to build because the old vicarage was too large and expensive to keep up, was about half a mile away at the other end of the village. To reach Rushwater House the Boulles must necessarily pass the church. Just inside the low churchyard wall was a large bush, from whose shelter Martin had often defied the search of nurses, or shot peas at his village friends. He perched himself on the wall with one eye on his book and the other on the village street, which was white and empty in the after-lunch sunshine. Not only his eyes but his thoughts were divided. Part of his attention was given to Shelley, who happened to be in fashion among the higher intellectuals at school, part of it wandered to the Boulles, and especially to Pierre. Martin’s blood boiled at the thought of Pierre’s treatment at lunch. To Martin, who so long as he did not grossly transgress the bounds – as in the unfortunate affair of Milton – was allowed complete freedom in his doings and his conversation, it was incredible that a grown-up man of twenty-five, who was almost a professor, should submit so tamely to his mother. It was also incredible to Martin, child of his age and country, that any mother should have the nerve to talk like that to her sons. Pierre was a very decent chap. If only all French people were like him one could get on very well indeed. Martin wondered again what it was that Pierre had meant by saying, ‘You are the sort we want.’ Perhaps he only meant the sort of pupil, though it was a funny thing to say.
The sound of Madame Boulle’s voice in the distance recalled him to the present. He slipped Shelley into his pocket and dropped off the wall, worming himself into the bush till he was invisible from the road. To his intense relief Jean-Claude was now dressed like any other boy in grey flannel trousers, flannel shirt and tweed coat, with a white scarf round his neck. Probably the others had only been his Boy Scout clothes. Martin breathed again. At least he would not be eternally disgraced before the servants. Ursule, in a short silk tennis frock, looked quite presentable, though not elegant, and the rest of the family would pass muster anywhere, though Professor Boulle’s alpaca jacket perhaps left something to be desired.
‘Mais voyons, Ursule,’ he heard Madame Boulle say as they passed, ‘how often have I told you that no well-brought-up girl should eat chocolates in her bedroom. The nourishment that I give you is healthy and sufficient. If you are hungry, you have only to say so. Chocolates are an unnecessary expense. By that I do not include chocolate as drink, which is healthy and fortifying. All English chocolate is excessively bad. The French chocolate is the best in the world and I must procure some from Paris, although the price augments daily. Have you read, Henri, in today’s paper that the price of chocolate already remounts to—’
Here her voice died away into the distance as the party turned into the grounds of Rushwater House. Martin bounded away by the churchyard gate and was at the house to meet them when they arrived.
At tea Professor Boulle fell an immediate victim to Lady Emily, who treated him with the respect due to a professor with the soul of a poet and an artist, a respect to which he was little accustomed at home.
‘How is it,’ she asked, ‘that you all speak English so well, Professor?’
‘My mother was English and my wife, after taking her degree, taught in English families for some years before our marriage. We have always kept it up. But I can assure you, Lady Emily, that your grandson will not hear a single word of English while he is among us.’
‘No, I’m sure he won’t. And you all speak such beautiful French,’ said Lady Emily, who appeared to be much impressed by this phenomenon.
‘One’s maternal language,’ said the professor with a smile.
‘But you said your mother was English.’
‘Madame, you confound me by your quickness.’
‘Some more tea, Madame Boulle,’ said Agnes, who was pouring out.
‘Thank you, I will. You will observe, mon petit,’ she said to Martin, who started nervously at being thus addressed, ‘that I here conform to the English custom by which “thank you” may be a term of assent, not of dissent as in French, as in effect I pointed out to your grandson, Lady Emily, at lunch-time. Your tea is indeed delicious. Tea is a speciality in the English nation. English tea is the best in the world, though excessively dear. I procure mine from a shop in London. It is a special brand which they reserve for me. Tea has never been in the genius of the French nation. Jean-Claude, before helping yourself to cake you should offer it to others.’
‘Eh bien, en veux-tu, maman?’ said Jean-Claude, pushing the plate sulkily at his mother.
‘Ah, par exemple,’ ejaculated Madame Boulle. ‘It is not for me, it is for the young people, for Miss Preston, for your comrade Martine. Martine has already made excellent progress with his French, Lady Emily. He is an intelligence, ce petit Martine. He will make a niche for himself in the world.’
Lady Emily had resumed her conversation with Professor Boulle. They discovered that he possessed an autographed copy of a poem by Ronsard which her father, the late Lord Pomfret, had translated, very badly, printed at his own expense, and presented in large quantities to all the leading French universities. She was delighted to find this link and made herself so enchanting to the professor that he informed his wife later that Lady Emily was pétrie d’esprit et de grace.
Agnes had Pierre next to her, and felt sorry for him. His mother obviously had a crushing effect upon him, and he seemed the member of the family least able to resist. Where Ursule was impertinent and Jean-Claude sulked, Pierre was invariably polite, but he felt keenly the impression his mother might make on other people. Agnes, incapable of clarifying her thoughts, could not have explained this to herself, but her instinctive kindness drew her to talk to Pierre about what she felt would really interest him.
‘I am sure you like children,’ she said. ‘I would like you to see mine. James is seven and Emmy is five, and darling Clarissa is two and a half. They are such darlings. James is going to school next year and I shall miss him terribly. Emmy has a pony and she is going to be very good-looking.’
‘Then she is like you, Mrs Graham?’
‘Yes, p
artly like me and partly like her father,’ said Agnes, on whom Pierre’s gallantry made no impression at all. ‘Would you like to see them after tea?’
‘I should love to. But what about the tennis?’
Agnes looked round.
‘Your brother and sister, and Mary and Martin will be four. I shall take you to see the children and then you can join in afterwards.’
‘I am going to the tennis with the young people,’ said Madame Boulle as they all got up. ‘I shall be umpire. Fair play,’ she added waggishly.
Martin and Jean-Claude exchanged looks. Although they had no particular liking for each other, a bond of sympathy was being forged between them in their distaste for Madame Boulle’s masterful ways. However, she could do no harm on the tennis-court, and no one need take any notice of what she said, so they all went off, leaving Lady Emily and the professor deep in a discussion of books.
Agnes took Pierre into the kitchen-garden where the children were again engaged in trying to catch goldfish in the pond. Pierre was an immediate success with the three children. He took off his coat, appearing in a short-sleeved tennis shirt, and plunged his arms into the water, pretending to grasp the unconscious fishes as they glided below, out of reach. Agnes watched them benignly from the farther edge, with Clarissa on her lap, thinking of nothing at all.
It was inevitable that one of the children should fall into the pond sooner or later. Emmy reached over too far, shrieked, and fell in. For one instant Pierre thought of his white flannel trousers, then saw Agnes’s lovely face, pale with terror, as she clasped Clarissa to her bosom with a vague idea of sheltering her from danger. He walked into the pond, which was only two feet deep, picked out the still shrieking Emmy and put her on land. Roused by her cries, Nannie and Ivy came running.
‘Emmy, you are a naughty girl,’ said Nannie, shaking her charge. ‘Ivy, run and get the pram rug and put it round her and I’ll carry her in. That’s what comes of leaning over too far, Emmy, and now the poor French gentleman is all wet. You are a bad girl.’
Ivy hurried up with the rug and Nannie took the still shrieking Emmy away to hot bath and bed.
‘Oh, Monsieur Boulle,’ said Agnes, still clasping Clarissa to her breast and looking like Niobe protecting the last of her children, ‘you are wet.’
Pierre, as he wrung some of the water from his trouser legs, wished that he were lying drowned at Mrs Graham’s feet if she would give his corpse such another glance, say to it such exquisite words. The poor young man stood damp and adoring before her, not knowing what to do next.
‘Ivy, take Mr Boulle straight to the house the back way and tell Walter to find him some dry things, Mr David’s or Mr Martin’s, and then come back and take the children while I go to Emmy. Darling Clarissa, we will stay with James till Ivy comes back, won’t we?’
Pierre suffered himself to be led indoors, delivered to Walter and conducted to Martin’s room, where he changed into a pair of Martin’s white trousers, which were a good enough fit. Walter, waiting to show him the way to the tennis-court, wondered what kept the French gent so long. If he had looked into the room he would have been none the wiser. Pierre, leaning against the foot of the bed, one leg in Martin’s trousers, was thinking of Mrs Graham. Her kindness, her beauty, the vision of her all pale and dishevelled – this was, of course, poetic licence, as Agnes was incapable of such discomposure – with cet amour d’enfant pressed to her bosom, had entirely upset the romantic young man. The soul of an artist to which his mother had alluded expanded within him. What a picture she would make.
Recovering the balance which his artistic distraction had nearly caused him to lose, he finished getting into Martin’s trousers, meditating a poem to the goddess. But he had got no further than
Ô toi qui …
when Walter knocked at the door to ask if he could do anything for him.
When he got to the tennis-court he found that the others had just finished a set. Mary and Jean-Claude had been beaten by Martin and Ursule. Lady Emily, Madame Boulle and the professor were watching them.
‘Where is Agnes?’ said Lady Emily.
‘I think Mrs Graham is in the nursery, Lady Emily. Little Emmy fell into the fish-pond and got wet.’
‘Ah, mon Dieu!’ cried his mother, ‘that is frightful. You must take the utmost care, Lady Emily, that she does not catch pneumonia. To fall into water is excessively dangerous. I have never permitted my children to go near the water for that very reason, until they could swim.’
‘There is hardly room to swim in the fish-pond,’ said Lady Emily, ‘it is so small and shallow. Is Emmy all right, Monsieur Boulle?’
‘I think so. I lifted her out and her mother and the nurse took her to the nursery at once.’
‘You didn’t get wet, I hope,’ said Mary.
‘Only my legs.’
‘What an ass you were to get in,’ said Martin. ‘I’d have hoicked Emmy out by her petticoats, the silly little idiot.’
‘But you will infallibly catch a bronchitis if you are wet, Pierre,’ shrieked Madame Boulle.
‘No, maman. I have a dry pair of trousers on. Martin’s, I think.’
‘Well, come on, let’s have another set,’ said Martin. ‘Here, Jean-Claude, you’re the worst. You can sit out for a bit and Pierre can play with Mary. Come on, Ursule, we’ll lick them again.’
Madame Boulle, in spite of her experiences among the highest English families, was amazed at the coolness shown by Lady Emily. A grandchild in danger of drowning, a young man in danger of a pneumonia and a bronchitis, and she was entirely calm, not even impressed by Pierre’s bravery. Bravery in the face of danger, Madame Boulle explained, was the characteristic of her family. Her great-grandfather, the comte de Florel, had been renowned for his bravery in the face of the most frightful dangers. Bravery was a special characteristic of the French nation. The English had a sangfroid, a phlegme britannique, admittedly, but such courage as Pierre had shown was peculiar to the French in general and the house of de Florel in particular. Madame Boulle wept with emotion. To console her Lady Emily mentioned the dance which was to be held on Martin’s birthday and hoped they would all come.
‘Mr Banister told me,’ she said, ‘that you would have an English girl staying with you, a friend of my son David, so I hope you will bring her too.’
Madame Boulle cheered up at once and accepted for her family. Miss Stevenson, she said, was coming to them about the middle of August and would undoubtedly be delighted to come to the dance. She then embarked on an account of a toilette de bal which she had had as a young girl, which lasted till the set was over. Mary and Pierre had beaten Martin and Ursule.
‘Jean-Claude isn’t much good,’ said Martin with the unfeeling frankness of his age. ‘We’ll play again tomorrow, we four.’
Pierre became pale inwardly. He knew he ought to be working, but if he came up to tennis he might see Mrs Graham. While he was trying to make up his mind between romantic affection and duty, a hubbub broke out, caused by his mother. This lady asserted that no English laundry could wash Pierre’s white flannel trousers. French laundries were the best in the world, but as there was no French laundry near at hand, she would take the trousers home and wash them herself.
‘I have a real talent for washing,’ she explained. ‘I shall tell you my method, Lady Emily, as it is practical and excellent. To begin with—’
‘I’ll send the trousers over when they are washed,’ said Lady Emily, getting up without taking the slightest notice of Madame Boulle. ‘My French maid shall wash them. It was too kind of you to get poor Emmy out of the pond, Monsieur Boulle, and I am sure Agnes is most grateful. Children always fall into that pond. All my children fell in. It has been too delicious to have you all, and I am so glad you are coming to the dance.’
Her farewell was in the nature of a royal dismissal. The Boulles made their adieux and went back to the vicarage. Pierre was even more silent than usual, which following on the events of the afternoon gave his mother cause
for alarm. He retired early to his room, having been struck with an idea for a sonnet beginning
Belle éplorée …
but before he could get any further his mother knocked at his door.
‘Pierre, tu ne tousses pas?’ she asked anxiously.
‘Non, maman.’
‘Tu n’as pas de fièvre?’
‘Non, maman, je t’assure.’
‘Tu n’as pas froid?’
‘Non, maman, je suis couché,’ cried Pierre, jumping on his bed till the springs creaked so that his mamma should be satisfied of his whereabouts. There was a moment’s pause during which he hoped she had gone away. But her voice reached him again through the door.
‘Si tu es couché, Pierre, dis-moi, est-ce que tu transpires?’
‘Oui, maman,’ shouted the unfortunate young man at the top of his voice. A sound of approval was heard and Madame Boulle’s footsteps departed. For a couple of hours Pierre wooed the muse, but in vain. Towards midnight he sought his couch and went to sleep at once.
10
The Rise of the Lilies
During the next few days, Mary noticed that Martin’s attitude towards the Boulle family was changing. He made no more fuss about going to his lessons, and either brought the younger Boulles back to tennis or stayed down at the vicarage with them for the afternoon. At the same time his attitude towards his own family also underwent a change. A kind of eighteenth-century courtesy to his elders, a deference to ladies, characterised his deportment. Mary wondered if Madame Boulle had been giving him lessons in manners, but felt so sure that any suggestion of politeness from the lady would only drive Martin to deliberate savagery that she dismissed the idea.
Meanwhile, there was no news of David except that he had been away somewhere. He wrote an affectionate note to his mother now and then, with messages for all the household, but gave no details of his movements. He was certainly coming down for the dance and very likely earlier, but couldn’t say for certain. Mary pined in secret, but the presence of the Boulles, the preparations for Martin’s birthday, and the thought of the new frock, left her but little secret time in which to pine. For quite a week she said ‘David’ when she had put out her reading-lamp in bed, but having once forgotten to do so, she felt a little self-conscious about beginning again.
Wild Strawberries: A Virago Modern Classic (VMC) Page 14
