The Smile of the Stranger

by Joan Aiken

  “Softly, Léonore—ease it through the door. See—there comes Monsieur Patrice—you do not wish to knock him down!”

  “Quoi donc—mon cousin—what is he doing here at this hour?”

  The cloud deepened on Madame’s brow, as the pupils parted respectfully to allow a slight active man of her age, or a little younger, to make his way to the dais.

  “Ah—Miladi Morningquest—bonjour—” He made a hasty, nervous bow in the direction of the distinguished visitor, but Lady Morningquest could see that he wished her at the devil. He continued rapidly to his cousin, “Marthe, here is catastrophe! I told you how it would be if the wretched girl was permitted to go home for her jour de fête—”

  “What?” exclaimed Madame Bosschère, grasping his meaning with positively telepathic speed. “Not Ottilie de la Tour? You do not mean to tell me that some misfortune has befallen her—?”

  “What did you expect? Not five minutes ago a servant delivered this!” Furiously, almost grinding his teeth, he flourished a crumpled piece of paper embossed with a coronet. “Broke her miserable nose riding one of her father’s horses in the park—without permission, I need hardly say! I wish it had been her neck! Now her idiot mother writes that she is under a doctor’s care and cannot return to school. Du reste, what use to me would be a Hamlet with nose bound up in court plaster? I should be the laughingstock of my colleagues at the Seminary. Oh, these cretinous giggling lumps of girls, with their fetes, and parties, and their minds on nothing but pleasure—how can one do anything with them? I would tie all their necks together and drown them in the Senne! Why in the name of reason did you allow her to go home before the performance?”

  “My dear cousin—her father is the Count of—”

  “Count of—chose!” growled Monsieur Patrice. It was plain that he was in a highly overwrought condition, almost beside himself with exasperation. He was a dark, sallow man, clean-shaven and quick in his movements. He wore his hair en brosse, unfashionably short, and was dressed very plainly in black garments of clerical cut, with a scholar’s gown flung over his shoulder. Not an impressive man at first sight, thought Lady Morningquest; but what did make him remarkable was the look of lambent intelligence in his eyes, which were the dark purple-gray of a thundercloud. His mouth was thin and mobile, his brow scarred with thought.

  Madame said soothingly, “Is there not an understudy, mon cousin? It is a pity about Ottilie, I agree, she is thinner than most of those paysannes, she has more the appearance of Hamlet, but still—”

  “Fifine Tournon!”

  Madame looked at him blankly, then remembered.

  “Oh, mon dieu! Called away to her father’s deathbed!”

  “Now, do you see? It is crisis—catastrophe—chaos!”

  In this extremity, Madame became Napoleonic. With knitted brow she reflected for a moment or two, then pronounced, “There is only one thing to do. In such a case as this, les convenances must be put aside—as I am sure our dear friend and guest here will readily agree—”

  “Indeed yes!” hastily said Lady Morningquest. “But, madame—Professor Bosschère—my dear friends, forgive me—I am shockingly de trop, and you must wish me a thousand miles off. I shall take myself away, for I have a dozen errands to perform in Brussels. I grieve to leave you in such a predicament, but I am sure that all will arrange itself in such capable hands—by the time I return this evening you will have trained a substitute—”

  She might as well have spoken to the potted palm beside her. Neither of her companions paid the slightest attention.

  “Marthe, I am relieved that you agree with me!” exclaimed Professor Patrice. “I knew you would see it as I do; there is only one person who knows the part, and, furthermore, can take the role and play it with intelligence at such short notice—”

  “Yes, my cousin, you are right, but, mon dieu, there will be so much delegation of duties to arrange; let me see now—how can we manage it all—”

  “Francine!” Patrice grabbed the arm of a passing child. “Run, find Mademoiselle Paget, and bring her here.”

  “I will leave you for the present,” repeated Lady Morningquest.

  Madame was still thinking over the day’s program.

  “There is the collation to supervise—but old Roussel can do that; yes, and Elène can greet the parents, and preside at the prize-giving after the first few minutes—for I shall be too much preoccupied, so soon before the performance. Elène can do it—not with my polish, it is true, but ably enough. It will be valuable experience for her, furthermore, since she must learn to comport herself in polite society.”

  Patrice looked puzzled.

  “She—Mademoiselle Paget?—greet the parents? Give out the prizes? What can you mean?”

  “Why, you would not have Roussel greet them? The poor woman would die of terror and twist herself in knots. And Maury is too unpolished. No, if I am to take the part of Hamlet—and I do not see who else could do it—little Paget must manage as best she can for the first part of the afternoon.”

  “You—you—take the part of Hamlet?”

  Now it was the Professor’s turn to stare; indeed he received this announcement as if it had been a cannonball.

  “But of course! What else?” Madame seemed equally taken aback. “Whom—then—did you have in mind?”

  “Why, she—Mademoiselle Elène!”

  For the first time, watching the two faces as they confronted one another, pale-cheeked, red-cheeked, Lady Morningquest thought she detected a cousinly resemblance in the square jaws, the flat cheek structure, the thin, firm-lipped mouths. But the eyes were different, hers opaque with shock, his fiery with purpose.

  “Mais—c’est une bétíse—inouï—!”

  “I will leave you to your discussion,” the visitor reiterated, and at last received a hurried, harried nod from her hostess, and a curt bow from the Professor. Hardly a discussion, Lady Morningquest thought with a private chuckle, as she descended the three steps from the dais, carefully lifting her gray lace skirts clear of the chalk dust and the palm spores. For Madame was saying, in a low, vibrant tone, “There can be no possible question of Elène Paget playing the role of Hamlet.”

  “But she knows it—she has been present as chaperon at all the repetitions—”

  “Firstly, she has far too many other duties to perform during the day, from which she cannot possibly be spared. Secondly, how could I ever explain such a thing to her father in England? It would be épouvantable—wholly unsuitable. A young girl, in my care! All the world would consider it a gross dereliction of duty on my part. Whereas I, the Directrice, a widow and woman of the world—for me it is unusual, to be sure, but I am above scandal, and it will be an encouragement to the parents to see how I take part in the children’s activities—”

  “But—!”

  “Say no more, Patrice! Any dispute on this matter is wholly out of the question.”

  As Lady Morningquest crossed the black-and-white-tiled hall, she saw Miss Paget run in from the garden, breathless and pink-cheeked. “You sent for me, madame?” the visitor heard her ask.

  “Ah, yes, my child, here we have a little crisis—”

  Lady Morningquest allowed herself a small ironic smile at the thought of the ensuing tripartite conversation. Patrice is no match for his cousin, she thought; Madame Bosschère will certainly have her way. Heaven only knows what she will make of the part of Hamlet—a forty-year-old Directrice! I am sorry, now, I did not manage to drag Giles to Brussels. But it’s as well she won’t allow Ellen to take the part—a taste for amateur theatricals is a complication we don’t need at the Hôtel Caudebec.

  At this point the ambassador’s wife became aware of the arrival of her daughter, tiny blonde Charlotte, clad, like the rest of her schoolmates, in a calico wrapper and curlpapers.

  “Mamma! You are here! Grace à dieu! Léonore said she had seen yo
u. Are you come to wish me luck?”

  “My dearest child! Gently, I beg you—you will ruin my coiffure! And—merciful heaven—look at you! You are an absolute fright! If your father could see you now—and in the lobby, too—”

  “Oh, nobody cares today,” said Charlotte blithely. “And there is none to see, except old Philipon, and he is half blind. Still, come into the little salon.”

  Charlotte dragged her mother into a small reception room, stiffly furnished with gray-brocade-upholstered chairs and sofa, a green porcelain stove, glittering lustres, and a console.

  “Listen, Mamma!” she said. “It’s so exciting. Ottilie de la Tour, who was to have played Hamlet, has broken her nose, and so Miss Paget is to have the part instead. We are all so delighted!”

  “Who told you that?” demanded her mother, reflecting on the rapidity with which rumor spreads in a school.

  “Oh, everybody knows. Du reste, who else could possibly take it on? Oh, I am so happy! I adore Miss Paget—she is my beau ideal! And to think of playing Ophelia to her Hamlet—Véronique and the others are all dying of envy. All of our class worship the ground she treads on—”

  “Then you are a lot of very silly girls,” repressively answered her mother, with the private conclusion that it was just as well Ellen Paget was to quit Madame’s establishment. “And, in any case, you are quite out. Madame Bosschère is to take the part herself.”

  “What?” Charlotte’s jaw dropped comically. She looked horror-stricken. “No, Mamma, you can’t be serious? Why, Monsieur Patrice would never, never allow it. He thinks the world of Miss Paget. He would have had her play Hamlet from the start if Madame permitted. Now she will be obliged to give in.”

  “Indeed she will not! And she is quite right. Les convenances would be outraged.”

  “But why? If it is proper for me to play Ophelia—”

  “That is quite another matter. You are only fifteen. But Miss Paget is a young lady, earning her living.”

  “I don’t see what that has to do with it. And anyway, she won’t for long. Everybody says Monsieur Patrice is sure to marry her. We are all going to put our money together, as soon as he pops the question, and buy a beautiful silver epergne, with all our names engraved. Not that he is anything like good enough for her, cross old thing! But you can see he dotes on her—his eyes follow her all the time.”

  “Charlotte!” exclaimed Lady Morningquest sharply. “I wish you will stop talking such ridiculous rubbish. It is harmful to both parties and, I am sure, entirely without foundation.”

  “No, Mamma, it is not. Véronique heard him, in the music room, calling Miss Paget his chère petite amie!”

  “Charlotte, I do not wish to hear any more of such ill-judged and disgusting gossip. In any case, Monsieur Patrice would not be able to marry Miss Paget; did you not know that it is a condition of the Seminary where he is a Fellow that he remain a bachelor? It is only by special dispensation that he may come here to teach in his cousin’s school.”

  “Well, if he married Miss Paget he could leave the Seminary—could he not?—and they could start a school together somewhere,” argued Charlotte, but she looked a little dismayed by this news.

  “Charlotte, I do not wish to hear another word on the subject. It is vulgar, mischievous, and, I am sure, a complete fabrication. Now I am going into town to buy lace, and I suggest that instead of indulging in addlepated speculation, you apply yourself to studying your part.”

  “Oh, I know it well enough,” cheerfully responded Charlotte. “The part of Ophelia isn’t very long, you know. And Miss Paget has been coaching me. Au revoir, Maman, chérie, à ce soir!” and she danced away down the hall.

  Very thoughtfully, Lady Morningquest went out to her carriage and had herself driven through the leafy faubourg and along the rue Royale. She did not observe the stately houses, rosy brick or colorwashed, on either side of the wide streets. She ignored the blossoming trees, hawthorn and chestnut in their spring foliage, poplars and laurels in the park where crinolined little girls bowled hoops. She was deaf to the cheerful carillons celebrating the birthday of St. Annodoc.

  Am I doing the right thing in transplanting that girl to Paris? she was asking herself.

  About the Author

  The daughter of Pulizter Prize–winning poet Conrad Aiken, the late Joan Aiken started writing at the age of five. During her lifetime, she published more than one hundred books for children and adults. She received an MBE from the Queen for her services to children’s literature, and is well known for her Jane Austen continuations.

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