Читать книгу Forget-Me-Not - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 6

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The Hotel du Boccage was situated near the embassies of England and Mecklenbourg and some of the finest mansions of the French aristocracy. A high gateway flanked by Doric pillars and two porters' lodges faced the street and opened into an enchanting little garden enclosed by high walls above which, to the right, rose the handsome edifice of the Elysee Bourbon.

Beyond the light foliage of the slight poplar trees, the Persian lilac and early roses. Mademoiselle Debelleyme saw the charming facade of an eighteenth century mansion of elegant white stone. The French windows of the rez de chaussée opened on to handsome balconies of ornamental ironwork, the floor above and the mansard windows that cut the high roof of grey slates were alike surrounded with graceful swags of flowers and fruit. The new governess crossed the little sanded court beyond the garden and mounted the few shallow marble steps that led to the door that broke the windows of the ground floor.

She was instantly admitted and conducted across an antechamber to the salon de reception. This was a magnificent apartment which looked on to the Champs Élysées and the Avenue Gabriel; there was no sound nor sight suggestive of a great city; the house might have been set in a great park.

The new governess was asked to wait; as soon as she was alone she looked about her eagerly. She was used to the heavy, expensive comfort of wealthy English homes, but this was different, this was magnificence, taste, elegance, this was, above everything, French. She liked to think that her ancestors had enjoyed such luxury and that she had been debarred only by the accident of birth from just such surroundings. So pleased and excited was she that her whole attitude and expression subtly and unconsciously changed. She drew herself more erect as her glance went from pale velvet carpets to delicate brocade curtains, from tall mirrors wreathed in gilt lilies to porcelains smooth and lustrous as silk, from chairs in exquisite tapestry to the drawn straw-coloured moire of the wall panels, which alternated with scenes of pastoral loves by François Boucher.

Crystal candelabra hung from the painted ceiling, flowers adorned jardinières of Saxe and Sèvres, the April sunshine dancing through the moving trees outside filled the room with light. The atmosphere was that of a palace; the taste, the decor of the Regency, that period so smoothly lovely on the surface, so completely rotten within, a period that would have suited Lucille Debelleyme exactly.

She looked at herself in the mirror above the ornate alabaster mantelpiece as she had looked at herself in the Paddington inn, and her room in the Belgravia mansion, with a keen scrutiny, with a jealous pride. She did not belong to the room, nor to the eighteenth century, yet she was not out of place, her five-year-old refurbished finery was still in perfect taste, her long curls framed a face that only required the right setting to be beautiful. She flung out her full skirts and thought: "Ah, no one will be able to prevent me from thinking I am the mistress here, no one can read my thoughts—"

Something startled her, fear like a cold breath dampened her rebellious pride; she saw a white, menacing face staring over her shoulder.

She spun round, then smiled at herself; the mirror was placed in the corner and against the opposite wall was a marble statue that represented a Cupidon arming himself with bow and arrow and staring before him to mark the target for the shafts of Love. This figure displayed all the graces of the irresistible Clodion, but, even on close scrutiny, the governess thought there was something sinister lurking in the contour of the fair marble face, a peculiar, disagreeable expression. But she never indulged fancies; she continued her eager observation of the gay and beautiful room that so delighted her. Her appraisal was professional; for nearly ten years she had been making herself expert in the domestic side of life, turning her energies, denied all other outlet, into this narrow channel.

She observed therefore much besides the impressive luxury of the place. There was dust on everything, the hot-house flowers were withered, the alabaster needed cleaning, here and there a braid hung in a loop; a chair had been stained, and above the massive pelmets that sparkled with gold thread a few cobwebs could be discerned in the shadows. The new governess had noticed that the footman who had admitted her was not as smart as he should have been; and the porter in the lodge, a little too untidy, a little too good-natured—not that well-trained impersonal behaviour that should have been demanded in such an establishment.

"All that money—and careless," reflected the governess. "I suppose they let everyone rob them. I wonder if I shall be able to get anything out of it?"

A heavy sigh disturbed her; she turned as a low voice said:

"You are Mademoiselle Debelleyme, the new governess?"

Madame du Boccage had entered softly through the pale-rose velvet curtains at the end of the room; the governess dropped a curtsy and waited.

"Pray sit down, Mademoiselle. I trust you had a tolerable voyage? And that the Santerres made you comfortable? They are good people."

"Yes, Madame, I am very grateful for your thoughtfulness."

And Mademoiselle Debelleyme waited for the usual scrutiny to which she was subjected by new employers; with an air of fatigue and another sigh the Duchess had sunk on to a canape,

"You are much younger than I thought," she remarked rather wistfully.

"I am twenty-eight, Madame."

"I know—but Madame Faustin told me that you were a very serious, grave person—much older than your years—I do not perceive that—"

Madame du Boccage spoke gently, even benevolently, but the governess knew that she was disappointed, and knew why.

The young woman in the dark merino, with the pulled-back hair, who had been interviewed by the wife of the French Ambassador had given a different impression from that made by the silk-clad lady with the long ringlets, now being examined. "I have made a mistake," thought the governess, and adroitly endeavoured to efface her error.

"It is the attire. Madame will understand that what passes in London will not do for Paris. Nor is the establishment of Lady Anfield on a level with that of Madame. I believed I should please by an appearance comme il faut, but," added the governess, suddenly raising her clear eyes, "it is true that I have never been in a household like that of M. du Boccage and if I have done wrong I hope that Madame will overlook it. I will wear anything that Madame pleases."

The women's glances met and held each other for a second; it was that of the Duchess which wavered first.

"Oh no," she said with a touch of confusion. "I should never interfere in that way. Pray don't think so. It is only—one thought of a—different personality—but it is nothing, nothing at all! Your testimonials were excellent, excellent, Madame Faustin spoke of you so highly—"

She was silent and the governess dutifully waited again with lowered eyes; this had become a habit with her, not from modesty, but from fear that her rebellion, her scorn, her pride might, despite her control, show in her powerful gaze. But in that brief glance she had received an exact impression of her new mistress.

Madame du Boccage was very dark, black hair, soft black eyes, amber complexion, too plump but handsome. There was something imposing about her, but something also gentle; she seemed anxious to please but slightly troubled as to how to do so, and the governess had instantly noted the same slight disorder in the lady's dress as she had observed in the mansion. The robe of the Duchess was both fashionable and costly, but carelessly worn, her jewellery did not match, and the exquisite lace cap that rested on her glossy curls seemed to have been pinned in place by an indifferent hand.

She began to speak again. Her voice, the warm, slightly husky voice of the South, was very pleasant, but she spoke vaguely, the usual commonplace talk of a woman relegating her maternal duties to another and salving her conscience by elaborate instructions she will never trouble to see carried out. Several times she sighed, lost the thread of her discourse, was a little incoherent. The answers of the governess were prompt and precise, mere mechanical acceptances of orders, or assurances of obedience; but suddenly she made an objection.

"Mademoiselle Broc will tell you all that you wish to know. You will go to her for everything."

"And not to you, Madame?"

The governess raised her eyes again; she was gaining confidence from the obvious weakness and indecision of the other woman, a confidence increased by the sudden flush that coloured the handsome face of Madame de Boccage, by her stammering reply:

"I do not interfere at all—you understand—my attendance at Court—I entertain a great deal—you will have sole charge—"

"And sole responsibility? It is a heavy task—I had hardly understood—" murmured the governess carefully feeling her way before this unexpected situation.

"I know. Several have failed at it! It is difficult indeed! I will not disguise that we have had a good deal of trouble to find the right person—I hope that you may be she—let us try, Mademoiselle. We can but try."

The governess thought: "Something is wrong here—what? And can I turn it to my advantage? The woman seems a fool. A tiresome, melancholy fool. She looks ten years older than she is—why does she sigh and flush? Mon Dieu, if I had what she has, I'd have Paris at my feet."

And the governess averted her gaze test this should too plainly show in her eyes. "How I hate you for having everything while I have nothing, nothing at all."

This interview that the indecisiveness and hesitations of the Duchess were prolonging indefinitely, was cut abruptly short.

The door was opened brusquely, a man entered.

The Duchess instantly rose.

"This is Mademoiselle Debelleyme—Mademoiselle, M. du Boccage."

And she was gone, with startling swiftness, through the rose velvet curtains.

The governess was, for once, at a loss; this sudden departure of her mistress, this sudden appearance of her master whom she had not troubled to reckon on at all, disturbed her well-trained control, her cold self-assurance. She curtsied to the man who had paused before her, nervously put aside her veil, flicked her handkerchief across her lips, then, as she grasped the personality of the stranger who was looking at her keenly, her courage really broke, she dropped, trembling and speechless, into a chair.

For it seemed to her that she was staring at Robert Morrison.

"You are ill. Mademoiselle? You have not, perhaps, recovered from the journey?"

The voice was courteous and kind, the tone one of a solicitous respect with which she was not familiar; she quickly thought of an excuse for female faintness that she had read of in one of Lady Blessington's languishing romances.

"The flowers. Monsieur—I am not used—the perfume of exotics is overpowering, is it not? And the air so warm—"

The Duke snatched up one of the vases that stood near his hand, and exclaimed in deep vexation:

"They are not fresh and the water is stale—always the same! These little things—excuse me, Mademoiselle."

He went to a window, flung it open and tossed out withering tuberoses, gardenias, camellias and stagnant water.

There was a sharpness in this unusual action that had the dramatic quality of emotional expression; the young man was plainly angry. The governess stared at him, thinking in a panic:

"I can't stay in the same house with anyone who looks like Robert Morrison—Mon Dieu, what cursed luck!"

She could not immediately recover from the shock of this likeness between the living and the dead; it was inescapable, exasperating to find in M. du Boccage, of whom she had formed only a vague, disinterested image, a replica of the man who had caused her to regard all his sex with abhorrence.

The Frenchman had the same type of athletic figure as the Englishman, compact, powerful, graceful under his costly attire of a dandy, the same excessive blondness that had alternately attracted and repelled her in Robert Morrison. His thick straw-coloured hair curled into the toupet fashionable among all the courtiers of Louis Philippe, his grey eyes were shaded by lashes that appeared to have been powdered. The features were blunt, good, youthful, he appeared less than his years, much younger than his wife; his clothes and accessories were exquisite, from the light-grey and blue striped trousers strapped under his feet to the pearl-hued waistcoat and fine cambric stock.

Having relieved his temper by casting the contents of the vase into the Champs Élysées, the Duke turned with an engaging smile that seemed to excuse his ill humour; his natural manner appeared to be soft, gentle, even gay, his voice was low and seductive. He approached the governess, who was shrinking into herself with loathing, and began to speak with that enchanting air of grand seigneur which was more welcome to her than fine wine to the palate, than rich perfume to the nostrils, than soft cushions to the body.

But she resisted, still in a panic; she rose, breaking through his apologies, his excuses—he, not his wife, should have received her, it seemed, there had been a mistake—but what did that matter now? She must leave his presence, his house—

"I regret, Monsieur—the position seems too difficult, I did not understand—I fear I could not undertake—"

"Mademoiselle, you would not leave me in this embarrassment—this cruel embarrassment?"

"The loss of a governess embarrasses Monsieur?"

"I must confess it—I have been overwhelmed lately. You seem, Mademoiselle, the person for whom I am searching—"

"Do I?" She could afford to be bold as she intended to leave the Faubourg St. Honoré for ever, so she looked at him steadily with dislike and irony. "But Monsieur knows nothing of me."

"I have excellent testimonials. I rely on the judgment of Madame Faustin and my own observation."

The observation of a few seconds?"

"It is sufficient. Mademoiselle, you have a presence and manner that give confidence. I feel that my children will be safe in your hands."

"Monsieur obliges me by this condescension—but I still regret—"

"If, Mademoiselle, Madame du Boccage has said anything to discourage you, may I beg that you will listen to me before refusing to remain?"

She seated herself, but averted her face with unquenchable repugnance; only curiosity kept her there at all. What was the secret of this extraordinary household?

As the Duke spoke she listened, however, more to his voice than to his words, for this had an irresistible charm for her; and presently she ventured to look at him again and her shocked loathing lessened.

He was like Robert Morrison, not in everything, he had not the Englishman's coarseness, arrogance or careless dress; he was essentially a French aristocrat, a courtier, and in all he did and said was the distinction, the allure of breed. Like the room of the house in which he sat he had an air of the ancien régime.

What was he saying? She drew herself together to listen—Ah, banalities, trivialities, his children, his governesses, his servants, the disorders of his household, his wife's ill health. She was bewildered.

He was not clever with words, he spoke in cliches and repeated himself. One sentence leapt from the others and fixed her distracted attention.

"I want you to take entire charge. Mademoiselle—expenses, nurses, maids, amusements—you will have the first floor entirely to yourself—"

"Entire charge? And the mother?"

"She will see the children for half an hour in the morning—otherwise you will manage absolutely alone."

Unlimited power! In such an establishment! I must not be a fool again. I must forget he is like that miserable Englishman—at least I will find out more—

"I regret, Monsieur, I could not accept a position that would be the means of separating mother and children. I could not live apart—with the whole responsibility."

"I shall always be available. You can consult me whenever you wish. I take the warmest interest in the education of my children."

Again the governess murmured:

"And the mother?"

"Neither her health nor her temperament permit her to interfere. She will be only too happy to leave everything to you."

Mademoiselle Debelleyme raised her eyebrows; it was now perfectly clear to her why there had been six governesses in three years at the Faubourg St. Honoré. It was not in the least likely, she reflected rapidly, that she would be more fortunate than her predecessors. A definite refusal was on her lips, but she hesitated because of the charm of M. du Boccage's voice.

She raised her eyes from the flowery wreaths on the Aubusson carpet to where the Duke's hands grasped the gilt foliage of the chair back. Startled, she noted the extreme nervous tension in that grip on the frail woodwork, the power in the wrists and fingers. These were the hands, not of an idle gentleman, but a man of enormous strength.

She looked up into his face. His eyes, under the thick blond lashes, regarded her steadily, and she saw in their depths something of the expression she had so often tried to disguise in her own. For a second two fellow spirits welcomed each other, then the glances fell apart; he was the Duke again and she the new governess in his household.

But she had made up her alert, adroit mind; this man with whom she would have to deal, to consult with every day, might be hatefully like Robert Morrison, but he was also possessed of exquisite manners, great physical strength and capable (she was instinctively sure) of profound duplicity. This combination attracted her; she asked no more from any human being than decorative qualities and a convenient unscrupulousness. She felt excited but preserved a melancholy resolute exterior.

"Well, Monsieur really wishes me to undertake this charge?"

"I have been asking you for the last half-hour. Mademoiselle, to do so."

"Monsieur realises there are objections—from my point of view?" She rose and her glance was at once an appeal and a challenge. "And Monsieur will remember that he persuaded me—and support me in case of—difficulties?"

"You may count on me, Mademoiselle."

She still appeared to reflect; as she slowly buttoned her tiny glove (how easily both her hands could have lain in one of the large palms of M. du Boccage!) she observed, casually, the white mask of the Cupidon that had startled her before. Certainly there was something sinister in that marble face, as if the malicious god tipped his barbs with poison.

"Very well. Monsieur, I will stay. I will attempt to please Monsieur—and Madame."

Mademoiselle Broc, lean, vigorous, elderly, poured out bitter gossip as she showed the new governess over the floor reserved for the children and their staff; her eager spite flowed out like the steady rush of water falling from an upturned vase.

The household was impossible, an inferno, Mademoiselle Debelleyme would find that out for herself—of course she would not be able to manage, not be able to stay, who could!

The Duchess was sick, hysterical, wildly jealous, unbalanced: Matilde, her maid from Normandy was a toady and a spy, the children were spoiled, the household out of hand, the nurses were idle, insolent gossips, the servants did what they pleased, the robbery, the waste, was sinful!

Mademoiselle Broc named everyone in the sumptuous household and gave each one a bad character.

"And the Duke?" asked the new governess, quietly.

Mademoiselle Broc had nothing but praise for the Duke; he had been charming to her, kind, considerate, the children adored him—but what could he do? Whenever he tried to interfere Madame made a scene; sometimes it was clear that he was driven half distracted—that was why he was trying to take the children away from their mother because he was sure the little ones were being ruined by this perpetual disorder—whenever Madame came near them there was trouble.

"Madame and Monsieur du Boccage do not agree, then? It is an unhappy marriage? Why?"

It was clear from the confused venom of Mademoiselle Broc's reply that she did not know; there was no definite scandal, merely a clash of temperaments, a disagreement over the education of the children—but what did it matter? The household, the displaced governess insisted, was an inferno!

"Which you have helped to make, you old fool," thought Lucille Debelleyme. "I must, of course, find out the truth for myself but, unfortunately, the truth is generally what one does not find out."

She was only half listening to the tirade of Mademoiselle Broc, her attention was distracted by the comforts, the splendours of the apartments which were to be under her sole charge. With greedy pleasure she noted every luxury; two rooms for herself, furnished like the bedchamber and boudoir of a gentlewoman, a pianette, a harp, a desk, flowers, pictures, a lovely view on to the tree tops of the Champs Élysées... a sharp difference from the little room with the drugget square, the hard bed, the cracked mirror, of Belgrave Square.

"I'll stay here," thought Lucille Debelleyme, "as long as human ingenuity can contrive it."

Mademoiselle Broc continued to assail her ears with a tumult of involved, petty and sordid complaints.

"Don't you think," rebuked the new governess with gentle authority, "that we should not gossip about our employers? And that we should always speak respectfully about Madame la Duchesse?"

"My dear Camille," said Madame du Boccage carefully, "I am sure that Mademoiselle Debelleyme will not suit us."

"On the contrary," he replied with his ready, amiable smile, "I believe that she will do very well."

"Oh no! She is not in the least the sort of person I expected. Really, Madame Faustin quite deceived me. She is too young for such a responsibility—and that cold, English type!"

"She is a Parisienne."

"Who is she, really?"

"Of a good family who was ruined at the Restoration, her testimonials were sufficient. We will give her a trial at least."

He waited patiently for his wife's answer to this, but he had an air of being detained; she had indeed intercepted him in the antechamber as he was about to leave to accompany the Royal Princes, M.M. D'Aumale and De Nemours, to the races on the Champ de Mars where the colours of Rothschild would compete with those of de Morny and de Pontalba. He looked very elegant in his correct English clothes; the Anglophilia now the height of the fashion suited him exactly, for he was of the type that his countrymen called "un lord brittanique."

His wife looked at him frowning.

"Believe me, Camille. she will not do—Mademoiselle Broc came to me immediately complaining of her—"

"Mademoiselle Broc has been displaced—it is conceivable that she is prejudiced. All the trouble lies in these perpetual recriminations. Has Mademoiselle Debelleyme complained of anything?"

"No."

"Give her, then, at least a trial, my dear Fanny. Are you coming to the ball at the Tuileries to-night? M. Guizot would like a brilliant display to impress those ridiculous Arab chiefs."

"I am sorry, I am not well enough."

"A pity." M. du Boccage approached his wife and kissed her lightly on the brow with cold, firm lips; she watched him cross the sanded courtyard and disappear under the delicate, waving shadow of the lilacs. The sunshine made his hair shine like pale metal under his jauntily adjusted top-hat.

Madame du Boccage sighed in a bewildered fashion; she was a woman who would be found at a loss in every situation that life can offer.

Lucille Debelleyme, having resolved to remain in the Faubourg St. Honoré, now seriously considered how to do so; she used all the mingled prudence and audacity of a general planning a campaign and enjoyed the exercise of certain qualities she possessed that, hitherto, had had no scope.

In a few days she had summed up the position of affairs as accurately as her sources of information would permit.

What Mademoiselle Broc had said of the disorder in the household was true. Everything was badly, wastefully run; the servants gossiped, idled and divided themselves into cliques, there was an atmosphere of unrest; the frequent lavish entertainments at which Royalty were received were extravagant but neither well-run nor successful; the children, pretty and charming in themselves, were over-indulged in one direction, neglected in another and drawn into the intrigues of nurses and governesses.

Madame's chaplain, the Abbé Galle, was very frequently on the scene and interfered too much in the household. Madame's reckless charities brought hordes of beggars about the place, many of whom imposed shamelessly on her easy bounty.

Against all this put these facts; the Duke liked order for its own sake and he was anxious not to waste a sou, because he was absorbed in the restoration of Javiaux du Boccage which he had begun on a lavish scale. He had come into a vast property and a magnificent title, but he had a mother, a brother and three sisters to provide for, and to maintain his position and revive the splendours of Javiaux du Boccage, built by the Maréchal de Villars out of the spoils of war, his wife's huge fortune was necessary to him. He was, unusually so for his rank, fond of his children, anxious for their good and passionately desirous of a household orderly, peaceful, cheerful in which they could nourish in perfect harmony; also he was Voltairean and liked neither the Abbé Galle nor the paupers whom he brought in his train.

Madame du Boccage was generous, impulsive, romantic, sentimental, tactless, uncontrolled; by the very strength of her affection for them she upset her children. She could not be with them for five minutes without introducing a distressing emotional tension or provoking a scene. She was really in ill health and took a good deal of opium.

It was no wonder that she and her husband had their disagreements.

How far did these disagreements go?

The governess wished that she could put her finger on that.

But she was shut away from those apartments on the rez de chaussée where Monsieur and Madame du Boccage adjusted their differences. It had been a romantic love match, they had had nine children; not even scandal gave M. du Boccage a mistress. No doubt, despite the unhappy friction from petty matters that disordered their household this couple, young and charming, were still secret, if intermittent, lovers.

"I shall have to be very careful," thought the new governess. "I expect she has the last word in all disputes—the wife, the mother—and the bulk of the money hers! Shall I attach myself to her? Champion her? Become her confidante, help her torment him—the man so like Robert Morrison? That would be the strongest position for me. She is a weak fool and I could soon get a hold on her—oust the Abbé, the maid, the paupers—make myself indispensable. Of course he is infinitely more attractive, but to vex her in order to please him would be too dangerous. If she resolved that I was to go he would not be able to resist."