Читать книгу All This and Heaven Too - Rachel Field - Страница 7

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She walked to meet her future in the Faubourg-Saint-Honoré as if spring itself were at her heels. The visit to her grandfather, she put behind her. His words had shaken her momentarily, but they were, after all, only the croakings of an embittered old man who resented her youth. To him her hopefulness was merely one more symbol of his own declining power. Because misfortune had turned life bitter for him, he could not reconcile himself to another's happiness. She regretted the grim interview of night before last, but it could not touch her. Neither could Madame Le Maire's pointed insinuations of personal pitfalls take root in her renewed self-assurance.

She felt equal to anything that morning as she passed the little stalls with their prints and trinkets and tattered volumes along the Quai. In one of these displays her eyes caught a print of the Empress Josephine, highly coloured and fluttering in the river wind, and such was her feeling of confidence that the Empress seemed almost waving a signal to her.

A blind man, led by his little dog, passed, and Henriette found a sou in her purse to drop into the extended tin cup.

"God bless you, mademoiselle," the man thanked her.

"How did you know that I am mademoiselle?" she laughed incredulously.

"Ah, that was easy." He nodded. "I heard the rustle of skirts and smelled lavender when you opened your purse. Mignon and I wish you good luck, and may your gift be multiplied."

The pair moved away, the dog full of subdued importance and curiosity, his master unhurried and detached as became one to whom smells and rustles and footsteps determined his own small world. There had been no one else to wish her good luck as she set forth for her interview, and so she cherished his blessing. Better to have one she had earned for herself than to have had none at all.

Flower-vendors were selling primroses and violets. She hesitated by one basketful, half tempted to buy a small nosegay. But they would be dear so early, she knew. Besides, her previous experience had taught her that such a display might create a poor first impression. Otherwise considerate mistresses did not tolerate jewellery and flowers on the persons of governesses in their households. She would take no chance of offending the Duchesse at their first meeting by even so innocent a lapse of dignity.

When she was within several streets of her destination she hailed a fiacre, telling the driver to take her to the Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Honoré, Number 55. Then she settled back to compose herself for the interview.

The hiring of the carriage was a gesture of strategy rather than one of fatigue. For her to have arrived on foot would have been to make a fatal entrance. At best her position was bound to be unpopular with the servants in any household. If it were reported by the footman to his companions below stairs that the new governess had walked up to the door like any nursemaid or milliner's apprentice, she would be treated as less than such. There would be friction enough in preserving her rights without making a mis-step at the start. By nature Henriette was independent of spirit. There was little of the snob about her, and at heart she disliked class distinctions. Yet she was practical. She knew that only by demanding the special privileges accorded a governess could she be acknowledged a successful one.

"Please the family, and you offend the servants," she reminded herself as the carriage rolled on. "Please the servants, and the family no longer trust you. I must walk the difficult path between and keep from slipping too far in either direction. Allons, a governess needs the skill of a tight-rope dancer and the cunning of a fox."

They were drawing up to the entrance of an imposing residence now. The façade with its long windows, the crest above the exquisitely wrought ironwork of the gates, and the clipped trees in their pots made the London house she had so lately left seem shabby by comparison. Her impulse was to jump out quickly and pull the bell, but she restrained herself and sent the grumbling driver to do so for her. When the porter in livery answered the summons she alighted decorously, paid the fare and tip; and was admitted into an inner courtyard, round which the wings of the house were built. Through this she followed the servant into a chilly reception-room. A footman accepted her card on a silvery tray, and she was left to wait alone. She rose and studied her reflection in a wall mirror, and felt relieved to discover that the wind had not disarranged her hair, which curled softly on either side of her face and was drawn into a low knot behind. She pulled the strands forward a little to suggest more oval contours than Nature had seen fit to give her. The walk had brightened her colour, and her bonnet was really becoming and at the same time not to dashing for her rôle. Yes, she was sure the servant had been impressed by her appearance. If he did not instantly label her as the new governess, she had at least one point in her favour.

She heard his returning footsteps and had just time to reach her chair and spread her skirts about her when he entered.

"The Duc and Duchesse will see you, mademoiselle. This way, if you please."

She followed him up a flight of stairs and then along a carpeted hall of vast length with many doors opening on either side. At the far end they paused, and the servant raised his hand to knock. As he did so a woman's voice raised to a shrill pitch of intensity came too distinctly for the listeners to miss.

"You know my feelings; it's no use pretending surprise. Every one in this house knows the pleasure you take in humiliating me—"

The lower, indistinct murmur of a man's voice under complete control followed, and then the woman's rose again.

"Yes, it is humiliating before the children and the servants, and now you will have a new audience in her. Don't think I'm fool enough not to know why you've sent for her. Mademoiselle Maillard satisfied me in every way, but because she was no longer young and attractive—because she sympathised with me in my misery—you must turn her out. I tell you I cannot stand another change and more insults. Every day the children treat me as if—"

Once more the deeper tones broke in and, seizing this opportunity, the servant knocked loudly. As they waited the word to enter, he turned and fixed Henriette with a significant look. She pretended indifference, but she was quick to catch its meaning—the sly amusement that accompanied the almost imperceptible shrug of his shoulders in their green broadcloth livery.

"Mademoiselle Henriette Desportes," he announced in formal accents and left her standing in the doorway.

She was always to remember that room as she saw it in the spring sunlight with her own senses heightened by anxiety over the impression she hoped to make and startled at what she had unwittingly overheard. It was a small, intimate room, evidently the parlour of a woman's suite. The draperies were deep rose colour, the white and gilt furniture exquisitely upholstered in flowered brocade that repeated the same shade. Sun streamed in at the long windows, touching the garlands on the carpet to brightness wherever it fell. Potted plants bloomed on the window-sill—rose and white cyclamens with flowers like tropic birds arrested in flight. A small secretary stood near by with scattered sheets and quill pens flung down as if someone recently writing there had been hastily disturbed. She was aware of all this before her eyes found the man and woman to whom the voices must have belonged.

The woman lay upon a chaise longue beside a small grate fire, and even in the loose négligé of crêpe de Chine and lace which flowed about her voluminously, Henriette saw that the lines of her body were soft and full, heavy with natural voluptuousness and the wide contours of childbearing. One was aware of her flesh first and of her features and expression afterwards, as one must notice the body before the spirit in any canvas by the artist Rubens. The Corsican strain was apparent in the inky shadows of her falling hair, in the thick dark brows and the startlingly red lips that showed in such marked contrast to the pallor of her over-full face. It was the most sensuous and at the same time unsatisfied mouth Henriette had ever seen, and there was no smile of even perfunctory greeting upon it or in the velvet black eyes under their lazy lids.

"Madame la Duchesse"—Henriette had not expected to speak the first word, but the silence grew too marked—"I trust I am not too early, but I understood you would grant me an interview at eleven."

The occupant of the chaise longue made a vague gesture with her head, but gave no other sign of acknowledgment. Henriette took a step forward and looked about for a chair. As she did so the other figure moved into her view from the windows. He had been standing close to the hangings, but now he took shape before her with extraordinary vividness. She saw that he was in his middle thirties, and that he wore a grey and green-striped dressing-gown that accentuated his fairness and the long lines of his body. His hair and the side whiskers which he wore trimmed close were yellow as corn silk, and the skin above them had a warm, healthy glow. His chin showed prominent and clean-shaven with a deep cleft under a full lower lip. In contrast the upper one was short and thin, and when he smiled, as he was doing now, the effect was youthful despite the high-bridged nose and the rather tired eyes. Those eyes were far from youthful, however: they were unmistakably those of a man who was experienced, and who could be inflexible as well as pleasure-loving.

"Allow me, Mademoiselle Desportes." She recognised the timbre of the voice she had heard from the other side of the door as she accepted the chair he placed for her near the fire.

"Thank you, Monsieur le Duc," she said, seating herself carefully so that her skirt folds might fall gracefully about her. It was warm in the room, and she let her shawl slip over the chair-back. Her grey alpaca was far from stylish, but it fitted well; and she drew off the new dove-coloured gloves she had purchased yesterday in an extravagant impulse. She busied herself with their removal, not wishing to continue her scrutiny of the Duc and his lady. Except for a heavy sigh the latter made no attempt to begin the inevitable questions. It was awkward, this silence, broken only by the soft sound of the fire and the idle drumming of long, well-kept fingers on the marble mantelpiece as the Duc leaned against the fluted pillars which supported it. Henriette had never been so openly inspected, but she felt no embarrassment at the appraisal. Rather a sense of power and strange security filled her. This luxurious room, this expensive robe of silk and lace, this family title, and even this handsome husband might belong to the woman before her; but for all that she was less at her ease than the governess who waited respectful, and completely self-possessed.

She was just in time to catch a frown and an impatient motion from the Duc to the Duchesse. It was the wife's place to conduct such interviews, and she evidently from annoyance or timidity refused to assume the expected rôle. Henriette gave no hint that she had noticed the sign; but she realised that the reins of authority had slipped from her prospective mistress's hands, and she lost no time in seizing them. Very well then, since the other woman had not availed herself of her rights, the positions would be reversed, and she must begin the questioning.

"Please allow me to express my gratitude for the compliment you have paid in summoning me to discuss your children's education. I hope my references were satisfactory?"

"The references—Oh, yes—quite so." The Duchesse's manner did not vary from its irresolute vagueness.

"More than that, they were excellent." The Duc's voice caught up the unfinished sentence, and he continued to regard Henriette intently.

"There must, of course, be much more that you would wish to know about me. Many points, that is to say, which could not be put into a letter. And I, for my part, should wish to know more about my charges before I could assume such responsibility." Henriette deliberately paused and turned to the woman on the chaise longue. But she scarcely seemed to be listening. Her eyes never left her husband's face. "For instance, Madame la Duchesse specified a very generous salary, but she did not mention the ages of the children or the instruction which would be expected of me? It may be that I am not proficient enough in certain lines to meet the requirements?"

"The requirements are not taxing, mademoiselle." The Duc unhesitatingly answered the question addressed to his wife, and she allowed him to continue without protest, indeed without any effort at entering into the conversation. "With your experience you will have little difficulty. Our two older sons, as you may already know, have their own tutor, while three of our daughters are attending the Convent of the Sacred Heart. That leaves four who would be your sole charge now. Isabella, our eldest daughter, now nearly fourteen; Louise, just entering her teens; and two much smaller—Berthe, who will be six next month, and our youngest child, Raynald, not yet four. You do not have any objection, I hope, to undertaking the care of a boy?"

"On the contrary," Henriette responded, pleased at the interest he took in his children, "I should relish a touch of masculinity in the nursery. I think it far better when boys and girls mingle, certainly while they are still so young."

"He is a bright little fellow, but I must warn you that he is rather delicate. His health has given me grave anxiety."

She did not fail to notice that he said "me" instead of the "us" she expected to hear.

"I understand," she answered. "Such a child needs particular watchfulness. An over-active mind can so easily exhaust a frail body."

"I am sure we may rely on you, mademoiselle, to instruct without over-taxing his strength. I can see you are sympathetic to the special needs of a high-strung child."

"Raynald is very sensitive like me." The Duchesse spoke suddenly, though she addressed her words towards the fireplace and the man beside it, not to the governess she was ostensibly interviewing. "I was ill and unhappy before his birth, and he will always bear the marks of my suffering."

The Duc gave the fire an impatient kick. Sparks started up from the logs. Henriette was less aware of these than of the intangible sparks of human antagonism which filled the room.

"Have you any preferences," she continued after an awkward period of silence, "as to the language I should use in their studies? I am accustomed to teaching in both English and French."

The Duchesse having dispatched her dart, relapsed into preoccupied apathy and made no effort to answer.

"English, I think, for the two older girls." Her husband again took command of the situation. "They speak it fairly well, but both need practice in writing it. With the younger two, I should leave that to your discretion. I wish them to learn it naturally."

"I think that will come about easily if they are in the room while I go over the lessons with their older sisters. They will unconsciously absorb much of the conversation without realising that they are doing so."

"An excellent suggestion. I am sure we shall see an improvement in their speech. Mademoiselle Maillard complained of a difficulty in forcing them to use anything but French."

"Certainly they will never acquire proficiency in any language by force," Henriette agreed.

"I have had no fault to find with Mademoiselle Maillard." Once more the Duchesse roused herself, and once more Henriette felt that the conversation had become a tête-à-tête in which she was an unwilling participant. "She has proved her loyalty and her affection, Theo, which you seem to forget all too quickly."

"We are not here to discuss Mademoiselle Maillard, Fanny," he broke in coldly. "Mademoiselle Desportes must in no way be hampered by past methods. I wish her to feel free to handle the children as she thinks best."

The dark eyes in the pale face on the chaise longue took on a sudden gleam, as if a second fire smouldered behind their darkness. "As you seem to think best," were the unspoken words she directed towards her husband. Disregarding this mention of her predecessor, Henriette hastened to change the subject.

"I regret to say I am not sufficiently skilled to instruct in the art of music. I play a little on the piano, and I could supervise practising if that were necessary."

"Their music lessons are already arranged, mademoiselle, and they also have dancing lessons once a week. I see from your credentials, however, that you are gifted in painting. Perhaps you would undertake to develop little Berthe's talent in that direction?"

"Indeed, I should be most happy to."

"You will find her more headstrong than her brother," the Duc went on; "she has spirit, but if you win her affections—well—" He smiled suddenly, showing his fine white teeth and making a slightly deprecating gesture. "You must pardon a father's prejudice, but she is an unusually charming and lovable child."

"You need not apologise for your daughter's attractions, Monsieur le Duc." Henriette had seldom heard a man speak with such naturalness of his children. She felt the bond which existed between him and them, and it filled her with surprise and admiration. "Never having known a father's interest and affection myself, I can think of no greater blessing than such loving prejudice. They are most fortunate."

The Duchesse sighed heavily. It was the only sign of life from the heap of silk and lace before the fire.

"I should also speak of religion." Henriette felt she could no longer postpone a subject which she knew must be faced, and which she dreaded to open. "I think you already know that, although I was christened and reared in a convent, I have adopted the Protestant faith. I tell you this now, frankly, because I should not wish misunderstandings."

A triumphant gleam appeared in the Duchesse's eyes. "There, Théobold." She spoke before he had time to answer. "You see what comes of sending to England as you insisted upon doing. The situation will be impossible."

"I cannot see why it should be, Fanny, unless Mademoiselle Desportes wishes to make an issue of religion; and she strikes me as being far too wise for that."

"Nothing is further from my mind." Henriette dared to direct a grateful glance towards the Duc. "I must follow my own beliefs as I wish others to follow theirs. I have reverence and affection for the good Sisters who cared for me in my childhood. It would never cross my mind to interfere in the religious training of your own children:"

"Your very presence would be enough to upset their faith." The Duchesse's voice had lost its vagueness. For the first time that morning Henriette caught a defiant note in her accents. "It would be hypocrisy to disregard it."

"That would depend entirely upon Mademoiselle Desportes's attitude, Fanny," the Duc remonstrated. "She says she respects the faith of others, and I see no reason to doubt her assurances. Besides, the Abbé Gallard has always dealt with their religious instruction, as he will continue to do."

"It is an insult to the Abbé to allow such a thing."

"I will explain it to him myself if you wish." He turned once more to Henriette and continued in a firm, self-composed manner.

"So long as your religious convictions remain your own, I am sure there will be no reason for complaint. I think"—he turned and fixed his wife with a long, meaning look—"that tolerance is a virtue we could all benefit by cultivating."

"Thank you." Henriette allowed the relief to show in her answer. "I am very grateful, and I shall do nothing to betray your trust in me." She waited a moment, wondering if the Duchesse would press the issue. But only the sharp rising and falling of the lace on the soft curves of those ample breasts gave evidence of emotion. "And there is another matter." Henriette pressed her handkerchief tightly between her hands as she summoned courage to mention the other obstacle that she found so difficult to express. "It is rather a personal one which I could not explain in my letter. It is a little favour to ask, but I should prefer to be called by the name Deluzy—Henriette Deluzy."

"This is rather unusual," the Duc answered. "Are we to understand that you are not Mademoiselle Desportes?"

It seemed to her that both pairs of eyes, the greenish-grey and the dusky, stared at her with suspicion. Everything, she knew, depended upon the plausibility of her excuse. She disliked telling a lie, but her grandfather had driven her into a tight place. She must stick to the story she had concocted in the wakeful hours following her visit to him.

"I am afraid this must seem like a strange request." She went on in her most deferential manner. "I hesitate to bore you with details of my own life, which has not"—she sighed effectively and pressed her handkerchief to her lips as if to steady them—"been too happy so far."

"That is to be regretted." The Duc covered his curiosity with polite concern. The Duchesse roused herself a little, as if this new turn of affairs renewed her confidence.

"Very few of us are happy in this world." The Duchesse gave another of her deep, meaning sighs. "Have the goodness to explain this mystery of your name."

"Give her time, Fanny. Can't you see that is what she is trying to do!"

Reassured by his tone, Henriette went on, summoning all her skill to touch her listeners.

"No, it has not been easy to face life alone. For a man it must be different, but a woman was not meant by nature to be brave and lonely. I have often felt—" She broke off with just the proper shading of helplessness, and the effect was not lost upon one of her audience of two. The Duchesse moved impatiently, but she refrained from interrupting. "I have been known as Henriette Desportes because the name belonged to my relative—my foster-father, who was also my guardian. Out of respect to him I made no protest, but now there is no further need to use it."

"He is dead, then, mademoiselle?"

She lowered her eyes with an inclination of the head. It was somehow easier to lie by implication than by word; and after all, she reminded herself, her grandfather had been foster-father to her, and he was certainly dead now as far as she was concerned.

"I am quite alone in the world," she added with resignation and appeal in her voice, "and one turns back to one's own parents, even if there is no memory of them. I felt I could speak of this to you and that you would understand my request because of the great reverence you bear to your own family names. Mine is unknown compared to yours; but it is mine, and I take pride in it."

"Well!" The Duchesse frowned and tapped the floor with a satin slipper. "I must say it seems very strange to me after all these years to shift about so."

"There is no reason why mademoiselle should not be called whatever she pleases in this house." The Duc swept aside his wife's objections impulsively. "I am glad you did not hesitate to express your wishes. You must always feel free to do so while you are with us—and may I hope that will be for a long time, Mademoiselle Deluzy."

Henriette warmed to the graciousness of his answer. It was impossible not to respond when this man cared to exert his charm as he was doing now in his consideration of her. His masculine magnetism dominated the whole room. Even more than his good looks and vitality, this easy naturalness and unaffected cordiality filled her with delighted surprise. She had expected, if she saw the father of her young pupils at all, to find him formal and detached as became the head of one of the oldest and most influential families of France, and here he was full of concern for his children and eager to put her at her ease. Intentionally or not, he had won her allegiance. Common sense and past experience warned her that it would be far more advisable to keep in the good graces of the children's mother, yet Henriette realised that in all differences—and she felt instinctively after half an hour's association with these two that there would never be any lack of such clashes—she would always find herself and Théobold, Duc de Choiseul-Praslin, in complete accord.

The interview was over. She had won her points, and her white lie had been accepted. No turning back now. She must answer to the name she had chosen because the initials would match the copper nails on her portmanteau.

It was the Duchesse's place to dismiss her, but when Henriette turned to the woman who was now her mistress she found the heavy lids had drooped over the dark eyes. The plump white hands moved inadequately among the laces of her négligé, and she appeared almost to have forgotten the whole discussion. All her thoughts were centred upon the man who stayed motionless near the fire. He alone existed for her in that room. The more she turned, reaching out invisible arms to hold him, the more he seemed to stiffen and hold her back though he leaned as carelessly as he had before. It was awkward waiting there for her dismissal like a charity child. But it was not the Duchesse who came to her rescue.

"Then we may rely upon Mademoiselle Deluzy to take up her duties to-morrow." He pronounced the name with emphatic clarity. "Does that meet with your satisfaction, Fanny?"

"Whatever you say." The voice had lapsed into injured acquiescence.

There was that in the tone which said far more than the perfunctory agreement. "You will do what you wish in any case, whether you humiliate me or not," was the implication.

Henriette made a move to suggest that she was ready for permission to leave. But the Duc motioned her to remain seated.

"I have sent for the children," he explained. "They will be through their morning lessons at twelve, and I asked Mademoiselle Maillard to bring them here. I thought it might be easier for you to meet now, before you begin your duties."

The Duchesse's heavy brows drew together in a frown. Already Henriette was beginning to know that expression and to dread it.

"You might have told me, Theo. I was planning to dress for a drive before déjeuner."

A knock cut short her protest, and the Duc hastened to open the door himself. Henriette turned with sharpened curiosity to face the little group she was to know intimately in so short a time. A spindling, dark-haired boy and a rosy, fair little girl came first, breaking away from the efforts of a middle-aged woman of nondescript dress and appearance who tried to curb their jubilance at sight of their father.

Behind them two older girls clung together in dumpy shyness. Both were brunette, like their mother, and would have been attractive except for adolescent self-consciousness and poor carriage. Their merino dresses were an unbecoming shade of dark-blue with white braid edging, fashioned too childishly for their already maturing figures, and their hair, though naturally thick and lustrous, was strained back severely from their foreheads and ears. Mentally Henriette saw them changed before her; saw them moving erect and at ease, their young bodies responding to softly draped dresses of crimson or mulberry, their eyes less anxious, their lips more ready for laughter.

"Isabella—Louise, come and make your curtsies to Mademoiselle Deluzy," their father was urging.

Obediently they went through the painful motions of presentation—awkward and solemn as two performing bears being put through their paces.

"We shall change all that," Henriette thought, inwardly rising to meet their need. "Grace will come when they are happy and at ease."

Mademoiselle Maillard acknowledged the introduction with even greater stiffness, though youthful shyness could scarcely be offered as her excuse. Henriette knew at sight that the former governess would be a thorn in her side so long as they both remained under the same roof. But she did not fear her as a rival. She knew her type too well—colourless, bitter-lipped, and ambiguous; one who would be overbearing with servants and those she considered inferior, and would overdo her meeching and humility with superiors. Such a woman resented her position yet had not the cleverness or good sense to take advantage of the possibilities it offered. Her narrow, hunched shoulders gave her away as did her hands. Yellowing, ineffectual hands, Henriette noticed, typical of the gentlewoman who works against her will and as seldom as possible.

It was only too evident where Mademoiselle Maillard's allegiance lay. She acknowledged the Duc's casual greeting with formality, and then overwhelmed the Duchesse with solicitous inquiries for her health.

"See," her attitude seemed to be saying as she crossed to a place by the chaise longue, "we must stand together against this new enemy. Your husband may find me too plain and dull to suit his fancy, but Mademoiselle Maillard will never desert you or let a younger face and figure come between us and our rights."

The two older girls watched her and their mother with anxious glances; but the little boy and girl had eyes and ears for their father, and their father alone. Mademoiselle Maillard's nervous remonstrances fell upon heedless ears.

"Raynald, take care! How many times must I tell you to watch out for the fender. Some day you will fall head-first into the fire and be burned to a crisp. Berthe, come here. Your slipper is untied. No, no, leave your mamma's desk alone. The ink—Mon Dieu! You will upset it."

But her words fell on these two like the drip of distant rain, especially upon little Berthe.

"What a child!" Henriette thought, following the swift, gay grace of the small body; noting the merry glance of those clear, fearless eyes, the fine bright hair that fell about the warmly-rounded cheeks. She was one of those rare children who seem to carry some charm against evil and pain and despair. Their laughter rings clearer and higher; their tears are more tempestuous and must be dried more quickly; their footsteps are more light and sure. Such a little boy or little girl becomes to older eyes less an individual than the very embodiment of all childhood knocking at the doors of an anxious old world. Always they are unaware of the secret that wins them more favours, and more friends than their mates. They never guess the reason till the gift has been lost for ever along the thorny, difficult road that lies between childhood and maturity.

Watching the little girl as she moved about the room like some new species of bird or flower, Henriette forgot momentarily the other occupants of the Duchesse's small salon. She looked up at last to find the Duc in turn watching her. He must have caught the softness that lingered in her eyes, for his own turned to her across the room. No muscle of his face moved, but a light filled those eyes staring into hers; and she knew he was touched by her admiration of his child.

"No, Raynald!" Mademoiselle Maillard's voice rose in shrill command. "Come away from there at once. You naughty, naughty boy to pick mamma's flowers."

She darted to the window-boxes, but too late to prevent the catastrophe. Raynald stood rooted in his place, his face awry with dazed guilt; a broken bloom of cyclamen in his hand. Mademoiselle Maillard's discipline broke over his smooth dark head.

"For this you will stay at home to-day when we drive to the Guignol, and for supper no baba—not one spoonful. Whatever made you do such a thing?"

The large, inexplicable tears of childhood began to rise and pour down his cheeks. "It was for mademoiselle." Still clutching the forbidden flower, he struggled to explain away his crime. "To put on her dress."

A surprised smile spread over Mademoiselle Maillard's lips, and she could not resist directing a triumphant glance in the Duchesse's direction.

"Oh, that was kind, Raynald. A very kind thought, but you should have asked mamma's permission first. Perhaps if you do so now she will let you give it to me."

"But—but—" He choked back a sob, and the truth came out in a rush before the next spasm. "I picked it for the new mademoiselle because she has pink ribbons on her b-b-bonnet."

Mademoiselle Maillard stiffened visibly; the two older girls lowered their eyes, and even the Duc turned hastily to occupy himself with the fire. The Duchesse put her hands to her head as Raynald's sobs broke out afresh, and Henriette stirred uneasily in her chair. Only small Berthe continued her explorations of pens and paper at the desk, oblivious to the crisis which had arisen.

"Well, you may give it to her then, since you have picked it." Mademoiselle Maillard's voice had resumed its dry accents of nursery authority once more. "But you will stay at home from the drive and go without dessert for your disobedience."

With hanging head and heaving chest the boy drew close to Henriette and limply offered the flower that had precipitated so much trouble. She took it from his hand and thanked him politely. A rush of tenderness and pity for his plight and bewilderment, and of pleasure at this early sign of devotion, filled her. But she knew better than to show her gratification. She must be tactful now at the start, and besides, Mademoiselle Maillard was the loser.

"I think," Henriette bent low to whisper in the little boy's ear, "I think since it is your mamma's flower it would be nice if you gave it to her."

She turned all her powers of persuasion upon him, while he hesitated, unconscious of the importance of his response.

"See how pretty it will look in her lace," Henriette continued softly, feeling the silky smoothness of his dark hair and the stubborn set of his small shoulders. "I will pretend I am wearing it when I go out—here." She went through the motions of tucking an imaginary flower in her dress as she urged him.

The bit of play worked. Raynald flashed her a moist smile and ran to offer the flower. His mother took it with an absent-minded caress. Mademoiselle Maillard, slightly mollified, hurried to set the desk to rights, while Berthe ran to embrace her father about the knees.

The servant who had shown Henriette in an hour before now appeared to conduct her to the gates. She rose and made her farewells. The salon door closed behind her first encounter with the Praslin family, but not before she had accepted a grateful glance from the Duc.