The blue dress was not as elaborate as the white when it was finished, but it still looked very striking when Larisa wore it.
“You look as if you were stepping out of a sun-lit sky!” Cynthus said poetically.
“I think the only person who will wear this gown will be you!” Larisa replied. “Unless I put it on to eat a frugal meal by myself which will be brought up to me on a tray to the School-Room.”
Lady Stanton looked at her daughter in astonishment.
“Do you not think they expect you to eat in the Dining-Room, Larisa?” she enquired.
“I think it most unlikely, Mama. You know Papa would never have Miss Grimshaw or Miss Johnson downstairs for dinner, and they had luncheon with you only because we were there also.”
“I had forgotten,” Lady Stanton said. “It is so long ago. Oh, Larisa, I cannot bear to think of your being treated in such a manner! What would your Papa think?”
“Papa might have thought of that when he was buying ail those expensive books,” Larisa said in a hard voice. “I only hope Nicky gets some of the money back on them, but now of course they are second-hand and perhaps no-one will want them.”
She had in fact been shocked by her father’s extravagance when she and Nicky had finished sorting through the Library.
It was easy to see where so much of his capital had been expended year after year.
“I wonder why he loved Greece so much?” she had remarked to her brother.
“He thought of nothing else.” Nicky said. “I suppose if he had followed his inclinations he would have left us all and gone to live there.”
“Perhaps he had been Greek in a past existence,” Larisa said dreamily.
“Do you believe in such things?” her brother enquired.
“I have often thought about it,” Larisa answered. “It is hard to understand, without believing in some form of reincarnation, why one child can show an amazing aptitude at a very early age for music, or another like Delos could speak French almost before she was proficient at English!”
“That is obviously an inheritance from our great-grandmother,” Nicky said.
“Is it?” Larisa asked, “or is there a different explanation?”
Her brother smiled.
“Perhaps I have been an Ambassador in another life,” he said. “That is why I am so keen to go into the Diplomatic Service!”
“And you will be an Ambassador again, I am sure of it!” Larisa smiled. “Think how handsome you will look with all that gold embroidery on your uniform.”
Nicky laughed and they had gone on sorting out the books which were to be sold.
But every day as they packed up the big family house Larisa found it harder to understand how her father could have been so imprudent.
Now aboard the Britannia, Larisa told herself that if it had not been for Sir Beaugrave’s obsession with Greece she would not at this moment be setting out on what she was sure would be a sort of adventure for which she had often longed.
“I shall see France,” she told herself. “I shall meet French people and if it is too unpleasant or difficult I can always go home.”
It was a nice, cosy feeling to think that she could always return to Mama, Athene, and Delos.
Anyway she would do her best to stay at least until Nicky had completed his studies at Oxford.
She and Nicky had been obliged to stay the night in Dover so that Larisa could catch the early boat to Calais.
They had put up at a cheap and not very comfortable Hotel, but at least they had been together.
They had laughed at the other people staying there and Larisa had enjoyed every moment of the rather unpalatable supper because Nicky was with her.
“You will look after yourself, Larisa?” he said when they had finished eating.
“You know I shall do that,” she replied, “and if any of us had to go abroad it is best that it should be me!”
“Why do you say that?” he enquired.
“Cynthus has always been rather vague. I feel that if she was looking after a child she would forget about him if she was reading a book or lost in one of her day-dreams. Athene is far too impulsive and Delos is too romantic!”
Nicky laughed.
“And I suppose you are none of those things?”
“I am full of common sense. At least I hope so!”
“I am not sure about that, but I have always thought that you are the cleverest of my sisters, and perhaps the bravest!”
Larisa looked at him with deep affection.
“Do you mean that?”
“I mean it,” he said, “but I am going to worry about you, Larisa. You are far too pretty to be let loose alone on the Continent. I am quite sure there are going to be a lot of Frenchmen to tell you so!”
“I promised Mama not to listen to the smallest compliment!”
Nicky laughed again, but it was rather ruefully. “Poor Mama. She has no idea of what the world is like outside Redmarley House, and quite frankly, Larisa, it is not going to be easy for you.”
“I know that,” Larisa said in a serious tone. “At the same time, you all are there just across the sea and if things get too difficult I shall come home.”
“You do that,” Nicky said.
He was silent for a moment and then he added:
“It is awfully hard for me to know how to say thank you for what you are doing for me.”
“Now you are making me feel embarrassed.” Larisa protested. “We love you, Nicky, and I know you would do the same for us if it were the other way round.”
“You know I would,” he answered.
A hundred fifty pounds a year!” Larisa thought to herself as the steamer puffed its way across a comparatively calm sea.
It seemed an enormous amount of money for teaching a small child to speak English, and she wondered what would happen if the boy did not learn as quickly as his grandfather expected him to.
She was sure, however, that French children were quick-witted, and it would not be as difficult for him to learn English as it would be for an English child to learn French.
The steamer arrived at Calais on time and the train to Paris was waiting in the station.
A porter at the Quay-side placed Larisa’s trunk in the van and carried her hold-all along the train until he found a second-class carriage inscribed “Ladies Only.”
He helped her into it and she settled herself in a window-seat so that she could see as much of the countryside as possible.
The carriage was empty when she entered but a few minutes later the door was opened and a lady climbed in.
She was very elaborately gowned in what seemed to Larisa to be an exaggerated version of the fashions she and the family had pored over in The Ladies Journal.
There was an expensive, exotic fragrance about her as she moved into the seat opposite Larisa.
A porter carried in an enormous number of packages, which he stowed away in the rack over her head.
The lady tipped him and as he said: “Merci beaucoup, Madame!” Larisa knew that it had been a generous pourboire.
The lady settled herself down, her skirts rustling over silk petticoats. Her jacket was trimmed with a fur which Larisa thought might be sable. There was a diamond brooch at her throat.
It seemed much warmer than it had been in the Channel and after a few moments the lady took off her fur-trimmed jacket.
Larisa saw that underneath it her gown was elaborately fashioned with lace inset at the neck in an intricate style which she knew she could never attempt to copy.
The train started off after much blowings of a whistle and a clashing of couplings and buffers which made the carriage rock.
Black smoke from the engine blew past the windows, which fortunately were closed.
Larisa stared out as they passed the ugly buildings which bordered the Quay-side, continued past a few suburban houses, then reached the open countryside.
This was what she had wanted to see: the broad acres of France, th
e poplars bordering the roads, the peasants working in the fields.
It was as they gathered speed that one of the packages belonging to the other occupant of the compartment fell down from the rack.
The lady gave an exclamation of annoyance, and looking up Larisa realised that quite a number of the other packages were likely to fall if nothing was done about them.
“Let me assist you, Madame!” she exclaimed in French.
“Merci bien!” the lady replied.
Larisa climbed onto the seat and, holding herself steady with one hand on the rack, she managed to secure the rest of the packages; adjusting them so that there was no likelihood of any more falling on their owner’s head.
“The porter was an imbecile to place my things so precariously!” the lady said.
“They will be safe now,” Larisa answered.
She stepped down from the seat on which she had been standing and sat down.
“It is very kind of you, Mademoiselle, to help me,” the lady said, glancing at her ringless hand as she spoke.
“It is a pleasure, Madame,” Larisa replied politely.
“You are English?”
“Yes. I have just crossed the Channel.”
“That is what I thought, and is this your first visit to France?”
“My first,” Larisa admitted.
“I hope you will enjoy it,” the lady said.
Then she smiled.
“I think there could be no doubt about that! You are very pretty, Mademoiselle!”
“Thank you,” Larisa answered.
“And your gown becomes you. Where was it made?”
Larisa was so surprised at the question that for a moment she did not reply and the lady said quickly:
“Forgive me! You will think it an impertinence, but I must explain. I am Madame Madeleine.”
Larisa was wondering what she should reply to this when the lady went on:
“I forget that means nothing to you, but it is a name of some importance in Paris. I am not Monsieur Worth, you understand, but I am still a dress-maker of the haute couture.”
“A dress-maker!” Larisa exclaimed.
Without meaning to she glanced at the many packages which she had been rearranging on the rack.
“Exactly!” the lady said with a smile. “I have been to London after visiting the North of France to buy lace for the gowns I design.”
She saw that Larisa was interested and went on: “There are no lace-makers as skillful as those in Normandy and Brittany. They work in their homes and many of them cannot read, so it is impossible for them to send what they make to Paris.”
She made a gesture with her hand as she continued:
“Voyons, I therefore have to visit them myself and explain while I am there my requirements for next year.”
“I understand.” Larisa said. “Is it easy to make lace?”
She wondered as she spoke whether she could learn to make it.
“It is an art that has been handed down from generation to generation.” Madame Madeleine replied. “Very often one family will have a secret design which they prize jealously and must not be copied.”
“It sounds fascinating!” Larisa exclaimed.
“The lace is also very decorative,” Madame Madeleine answered, “and because it is hand-made I can charge a very high price for it when it is on one of my gowns.”
She smiled and added:
“Now you will understand why I asked you where your gown was made.”
“It belonged to my mother.” Larisa said frankly, “and she bought it in London some years ago.”
“The colour is perfect with your skin,” Madame Madeleine said, “but then, Mademoiselle almost anything you wore would become you. I hope one day I may have the pleasure of dressing you.”
Larisa laughed.
“I am afraid that is something which will never happen, Madame! Although it would be exciting to think it might!”
“Why are you so sure?” Madame Madeleine asked. “With your looks, beautiful and expensive gowns should be easily obtainable!’
“For a Governess?” Larisa asked. “No, I must make my own dresses—when I can afford the material!”
“You are a Governess?” Madame Madeleine exclaimed.
“That is why I have come to France,” Larisa answered. “I am to teach a little boy to speak English.”
“But such a position is a waste of your beauty!” Madame protested.
“I am very fortunate in getting this position,” Larisa said seriously. “You see, most people want much older Governesses.”
“And not such pretty ones!” Madame Madeleine said, and added, “I can understand that. At the same time, it seems a sad waste.”
“Waste?” Larisa queried, thinking that perhaps she had misunderstood the word.
“With your looks you could be a sensation on the stage or wherever the gentlemen of Paris could—see you.”
Larisa laughed.
“If my mother could hear you she would faint. She would rather die than allow me to go on the stage! Besides, I doubt if I have the talent for acting.”
Madame Madeleine looked at her sharply as if she suspected Larisa of being sarcastic. Then she asked:
“How old are you, Mademoiselle, if you do not think it rude of me question you?”
“I am eighteen,” Larisa replied, “but I am trying to look older so that people will not think I am too young to teach.”
“I do not think it is your age which will worry them,” Madame Madeleine said quietly, noting Larisa’s golden hair, wide blue eyes, and small, classic features. Then she said in a more conversational tone:
“Will you be living in Paris?”
“No indeed,” Larisa answered. “I am going to Valmont-sur-Seine.”
Madame Madeleine did not speak and Larisa added a little proudly:
“I am to teach the grandson of le Comte de Valmont!”
Madame Madeleine sat up sharply.
“Le Comte de Valmont?” she repeated, “c’est impossible!”
“Why it is impossible?” Larisa asked.
“To go to the Chateau Valmont? No, M’mselle! No! No! No!”
“Why do you say that?” Larisa asked. “Is there something wrong?”
“It depends what you mean by wrong,” Madame Madeleine replied, “but if you meet Comte Raoul de Valmont it would be a catastrophe!”
Larisa looked at her in perplexity.
“Who is the Comte Raoul?”
“You have not heard of him?”
“No, never!” Larisa answered. “It was the Comte de Valmont who wrote to my mother, and he signed his name ‘Francois’.”
“He is head of the family,” Madame Madeleine explained. “He is a great aristocrat. The de Valmonts are part of the history of France.”
“Then why do you speak in such a way of Comte Raoul, whoever he may be?” Larisa enquired.
“Perhaps you will not see him,” Madame Madeleine said almost as if she spoke to herself. “He is always in Paris. They say he does not get on with his father, and who would be surprised at that?”
“What are you talking about?” Larisa asked. “Please explain. You must realise it is important to me?”
“If you were my daughter,” Madame Madeleine replied, “I would put you on the first ship sailing from Calais to Dover and send you home.”
“But why? Why?” Larisa insisted.
“Because, ma pauvre petite,” Madame Madeleine said, “Comte Raoul is not for such as you!”
“I cannot quite understand what he has to do with it,” Larisa said.
“He is of course the father of the little boy you will be teaching,” Madame Madeleine replied.
“I had not realised that Jean-Pierre had a father!” Larisa exclaimed. “When his grandfather wrote to Mama, she thought, in fact we all thought, that the little boy must be an orphan.”
“He has a father,” Madame Madeleine said. “A father who, I assure you, Mademoiselle, no-
one could ignore. And yet you may not see him. People are always gossiping about Comte Raoul, and if rumour is to be believed he and his father are always at each other’s throats!”
“Why should they talk about him?” Larisa asked.
“Because, Mademoiselle, he is most dashing, the most sought after, the most sensational young man in all Paris!”
Madame Madeleine drew in her breath before she went on:
“Everyone talks about him. All the women run after him! ‘Monsieur le Diable’ is what they call him, and I can assure you that the name is apt.”
“Why? What does he do to deserve such a nickname?’
“He tempts every woman that he meets into indiscretion and folly,” Madame Madeleine replied. “Ah, Mademoiselle, if only you knew how easily they yield to him.”
Madame Madeleine threw out her hands in an expressive gesture.
“Vite! Vite! Madame,” they say to me. ‘Your best gown; your smartest, your most exquisite! Tonight I must look alluring, beautiful, different. I must outshine everybody.’ ”
Madame Madeleine gave a little laugh.
“I do not even have to ask why. I know it is because they are dining with Comte Raoul!”
“Why is he so attractive to them?” Larisa enquired.
“Who can explain why such a man can make every woman he meets fall wildly in love with him?” Madame Madeleine enquired. “She may be a Duchess—a grande dame who moves in only the very best circles, she may be the star of the Folies-Bergere or the Moulin Rouge. She may be in the Theatre or in some Cafe Chantant. Wherever there is an attractive woman, Comte Raoul will find her, and when he finds her—voyons! she is lost!”
Larisa’s eyes were on Madame Madeleine’s face.
It was obvious that she was fascinated by what she was being told.
“And does the Comte fall in love with them?” she asked.
Madame Madeleine shrugged her shoulders.
“What is love?” she asked. “Is it the nectar a man finds in every flower he touches with his lips? Or is it the excitement of knowing that he has only to snap his fingers and they run at his bidding?”
“And has Comte Raoul a wife?” Larisa asked.
“No, no. She is dead!” Madame Madeleine replied. “She was the mother of the little boy you will be teaching and she died in childbirth.”
“That was sad for him,” Larisa said.
The Devil in Love (Bantam Series No. 24) Page 4
