Читать книгу Forget-Me-Not - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 5

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There had been one little difficulty; the question of religion. The governess, bred a Roman Catholic, had become a Protestant to please her English employers, and Madame du Boccage was devote; but Madame Faustin was not and thought that the governess could quietly return to her early faith without any reference to her heretical lapse, and easily conform with Church observances sufficiently to satisfy her mistress; and the governess, who cared nothing for any creed, thought so too.

She returned for the last time to the mansion in Belgravia; performed her final duties to her pupils, who were sullen and red-eyed because of her departure, and took leave of Lady Anfield, who vaguely congratulated her on her "splendid good luck".

In the wide bedchamber of the little girls the governess knelt at prayers; the night lamp cast a soft light over the heavy furniture, the prints of religious subjects on the walls, the toys neatly stacked on the shelves, the straight beds with the dimity covers sprigged with roses. The children's heads were bowed in their hands, their well-brushed, pale yellow hair hung down over their white nightgowns which fell over their woollen shoes slipping off their pink heels.

The governess knelt between them but her head was raised; she stared into the warm flickering shadows of the familiar room and she did not repeat the formula of the prayers even with her lips.

The children loved her; that was her offence here. Probably it would always be her offence wherever she went. With children she was herself, vivid, amusing, possessed of a delicate understanding of childish minds, of the art of making the commonplace exciting, of banishing boredom, of soothing by firmness, by an exact order. She knew that she could make any child love her and she could love any child for the same reason that a blind beggar loves his dog; the animal does not know that his master is less than other men, and children did not know that Lucille Debelleyme was below other women, "only the governess." She set herself deliberately, carefully, to charm them, to win their respect, their devotion, and they responded instantly. Sometimes, as they grew older they became tainted by the world's opinion and realised that their fascinating companion was only a penniless dependent in their father's house; but with the little children she was always sure of her victory.

The prayers over, the two girls embraced her with sobs, stammering over their good-byes. She soothed them gravely, tucked them in bed, stayed till they slept, then left them in charge of the nurse, who did not like her, and watched her departure with gratified malice.

In her upper room the governess lit the candle and finished her packing. On top of all her other clothes she carefully placed a blue silk dress, a tartan scarf, a gros de Naples mantle, a bonnet with a black lace fall; in the bottom of the trunk was a copy of 'Forget-me-not' of 1840, and a silver thimble wreathed with pure blue flowers.

She began to undress. The evening was warm; she had half raised the Holland blind and she could see the tiny lights in the windows of the backs of the houses across the yards. Above the ugly chimney-stacks a few stars showed a melancholy, remote sparkle.

The governess took off her clothes and drew the curtains. She had locked the door and felt that she had escaped from the pompous house, from the people in it, from the routine of the day; she was no longer the governess but a woman. She dominated her shabby surroundings as she stood naked on the square of drugget by the bed; she had taken the pins out of her hair and it fell in natural ringlets to her waist, a lovely shining colour and texture.

She arranged the mirror so that/she could see as much of her body as possible.

"This is I, myself. All that I have. And I must hide it away, be ashamed of it. No one knows what I am like."

Long, pale limbs, of firm line, a body in perfect harmony with the small classic-featured face, with hair fine as silk.

She admired her hands, her feet that she tended so carefully, the smoothness of her skin, her full bosom, the slope of her waist and thighs. In the curve of her back were two brown moles.

Moving the mirror from place to place she gravely surveyed herself; she was not thinking of any possible lover, there was nothing voluptuous in her pose or her gestures; she contemplated her own beauty because it gratified her pride, her self-respect, increased her value in her own eyes. Only by the convention of society was she less than other women.

The candle was guttering; she extinguished it and the dark completed her sense of deliverance. Her cold eyes gazed gratefully into the blackness as she sat on the edge of the bed, her body freed from ugly garments, her mind from the necessities of servitude.

The steamboat left Harwich on a bright, windy morning. Mademoiselle Debelleyme sat on deck; she had managed her affairs without haste or confusion, her purse was in her hand, her carpet bag by her side, she had seen her trunk on board, knotted her veil round her bonnet, drawn her shawl round her shoulders and sat at ease and leisure.

She was the only female travelling alone. She watched contemptuously the helpless disorder of such other women as there were, how they clamoured for the protection of father, husband, brother, making a parade of foolishness and helplessness, how they lamented the distress of the voyage, and retired to the cabins immediately with smelling salts, eau-de-Cologne and toilet vinegar. Possessed of perfect health she was not disturbed by the motion of the ship and her spirits rose when England dropped out of sight on the horizon.

She disembarked easily, found her place in the Paris train and felt all her excitement sink suddenly; even the unusual speed, the spinning past of the Norman orchards, the puffs of whirling smoke crossing the coach window could not distract her fatigue. Her companions were dull and soon slept, the seat was uncomfortable, she felt imprisoned in this box. She ate some cake and an apple; her head began to ache, she took off her bonnet and closed her eyes; half drowsy, she tried to plan for the future to the exasperating beat of the engine.

How long shall I stay in Paris? Surely something will arise. Anything would be preferable to returning to England. My grandfather, too, is living at St. Cloud, the miser! I believe he has money hidden away, surely he might do something for me! Would it be any use appealing to my father's people? No! No! They would never acknowledge me. I must remember I am a good Catholic now. Shall I possibly have a chance to go to the Opera, the theatre, a fine reception, a concert, the Tuileries? Of course not, stop dreaming, stop dreaming, Lucille Clery, you fool! Will some man want me as a wife or a mistress? How contrive, with complete decorum, to attract any one? And I won't be despised, I'm glad that Robert Morrison is dead, dead, dead. Was he drunk when he fell from his horse? No one will notice me, I don't look pretty in the hideous clothes I have to wear, I'm always effaced. Why was I given that genteel education? Shall I ever fall in love? All men have a look of Robert Morrison.

I must recall all Madame Faustin told me of Madame du Boccage—devote. Mon Dieu! She was eighteen when she married; she has had nine children in fifteen years, four are dead—she is, then, thirty-three, not so much older than I. What a different life! What is it really like to have children? I should think it would be a sort of ecstasy to have your body used.

Nine children. M. du Boccage is even younger than she—he was only seventeen when she saw him at a ball and vowed that no other should be her husband—she had a dowry of two million, a great name, she could pick and choose. Sweetly romantic, Madame Faustin said, and their devotion a byword in France. I've seen enough of these affectionate families, it's like being cold and looking at a fire through a window.

How easy, with all that money and power, to be happy!

But Madame du Boccage is difficult—no one has stayed with her, what is the trouble? Shall I be able to overcome it?

To live in the Faubourg St. Honoré! With one of the greatest families of France! I must please her, if only for a while—

The governess could not escape from the trammels of decorum; she had scarcely begun to breathe the clear exciting air of Paris before she was accosted by an elderly couple who introduced themselves as Monsieur and Madame Santerre. They had been sent by Madame du Boccage to look after the governess for the night, until she was sufficiently rested and composed after her travel to present herself in the Faubourg St. Honoré.

The tired, disarrayed young woman accepted this considerate attention with due gratitude; but she would have liked this one evening in Paris to herself, at an inn, or even with her grandfather, where she could be outspoken, at least.

But she was shepherded to the respectable home of the Santerres; they had both been in the service of Madame du Boccage and were full of tales of her bounty, sweetness, domestic virtues, modesty and piety, as well as of her riches and splendour.

Mademoiselle Debelleyme listened with an appreciative smile and downcast eyes.

"But it has not been easy to suit Madame with a governess?" she suggested, quietly.

"Ah, Mademoiselle understands that Madame is most careful, devoted as she is to her children she requires an exceptional person!"

The governess had heard that expression several times before; was she the exceptional person Madame du Boccage required?

"There is a Mademoiselle Broc who has been in entire charge—but she had not the authority; she will remain, but under you—"

"Mon Dieu," thought the governess, "I shall have to placate this creature, too! How spiteful she will be at being displaced!"

During the modest supper the Santerres continued to praise the establishment in the Faubourg St. Honoré; through the welter of simple-minded adulation the governess contrived to extract one or two useful facts.

Madame du Boccage was a Corsican; on the death of her father she would inherit even greater wealth than she at present enjoyed. M. du Boccage had just come into the title and been elected a member of the Chamber of Peers. He was an intimate friend of the Royal Princes, M. de Nemours, M. de Montpensier, M. de Joinville... but he was not so often at Court now as he was occupied in restoring the famous Chateau of Javiaux du Boccage near Melun which he had recently inherited—but usually the family went for the summer to Locroi in Normandy where Madame had an estate, or to Dieppe for the bathing...

The governess thought: "No doubt I shall have left them by the holidays," nor was she interested in M. du Boccage. The fathers of her charges had never concerned her in the least; they had always remained strangers whom she had hardly seen. "I shall have to deal with the mistress, this other governess, the children, the servants—eh, well, one does one's best!"

She was given a neat room high above the darkness and rumble of Paris. A crucifix was over the bed, a book of religious meditations on the table; the governess leaned eagerly from the window into the spring night.

She loved this city in which she had been born and educated, the old quays, the dark scented churches, the narrow streets of the Isle, the luxurious gardens in front of high palaces, the quarters where the fashionable shops and restaurants flourished. She knew Paris very well from the outside, she was at home in this country, her own country, among the people and the places which had formed her obscure origin.

Kneeling before the open trunk, Mademoiselle Debelleyme took out her one silk gown which had been worn once and then hidden for five years. Out of date, but not so markedly; she could adjust it. Paris had already excited her; she would not appear in the Faubourg St. Honoré in the dowdy merino that pleased the English gentlewomen. Madame du Boccage was Parisienne, she would not expect a fright, she must be above the petty jealousy of frumps like Lady Anfield.

Fingering the stiff silk made furtively by the Bath dressmaker, the governess' mind went back to her sordid elopement, and, curiously, to the impetuous exclamation she had made to Robert Morrison. Reading of the funeral of the Emperor she had allowed her scorn of Louis Philippe to find expression, and had cried: "I wish I could pull him down!"

She smiled bitterly at this recollection; what a fool to think she could have any hand in public affairs! Here she was, in Paris, not as the Hon. Mrs. Morrison, who might have meddled in politics, not as a successful courtesan who might have pulled strings, but as a dependant in the household of one of the Orleans King's courtiers.

The governess knew contemporary politics as she knew Paris, thoroughly, from the outside; she had learnt from her grandfather a sentimental and selfish devotion to Napoleon I; it was true that her family had been ruined and scattered at the Restoration of the Bourbons. And if she hated the Legitimists she scorned more deeply the cadet branch of the Royal House which had cringed to the people, paraded liberal ideas and risen to a restricted power through the ruin of the rightful Kings.

Louis Philippe D'Orleans had fought the Royalists at Valmy, erased the Lilies from his escutcheon, and. Prince of the Blood, son of the man who had voted for the death of his cousin, Louis XVI, effected the "bon bourgeois," the citizen monarch, and meanly named himself Louis Philippe as if he was a petty Prince of Italy or Germany. The governess would very willingly have seen him chased from Paris amid the uproar of yet another revolution; she had been pleased to observe in a print-seller's window as she drove from the station a caricature of the stout monarch, with his close whiskers and neat curly toupet as a huge pear!

She must think of her own affairs; she needed gloves, shoes, a veil. She must be up early to purchase these before she waited on Madame du Boccage.

Weariness overcame her, she slid cautiously into the bed and slept beneath the dark outline of the cheap crucifix.