Читать книгу All This and Heaven Too - Rachel Field - Страница 8

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To lie warm and unhurried in the depths of a bed soft with eiderdown and fine linen; to hear the pelt of rain at the windows and know that by merely reaching for the bell-rope beside her she could summon a maid to draw her curtains, light a fire, and fetch hot water: this was a sensation so new to Henriette that even after a week she still marvelled at the recurring miracle. No more valiant charges from bed into arctic chillness and determined splashings of cold water while teeth chattered and icy fingers fumbled to fasten buttons and arrange hair. No more standing on tiptoe to peer into cracked or dimming mirrors. Now she sipped her café au lait at ease and made her leisurely toilette by a fire, before a mirror that did not distort her features. At half-past eight she would emerge, trim and refreshed, to greet her charges and preside over their morning rolls and chocolate at the head of the table where Mademoiselle Maillard sat at the opposite end, grey and furtive, waiting to pounce upon slights and misdemeanours with the avidity of a hawk.

The two ends of that table were identical, and yet from the first morning they had breakfasted there together, Henriette's end had become the head and Mademoiselle Maillard's the foot.

"Mademoiselle Deluzy, Raynald has upset the honey. Quick! It's running into my lap."

"Mademoiselle Deluzy, Berthe ate three crescents, and now there's none left for me!"

"But I tell you I didn't mean to spill the cream. How could I help it, Mademoiselle Deluzy, when Louise tickled me?"

"Oh, Mademoiselle Deluzy! I dreamed last night that Papa took us to the opera—Isabella and you and me and—"

"And me, Louise—did I go too?"

"Of course not, Berthe—you're too little, even in a dream. And, Mademoiselle Deluzy, they say if you dream the same thing three times it always comes true. Do you believe it might."

Their spontaneous including of her in all their doings, their natural appeal to her as the centre of authority was flattering; but it had its drawbacks. Mademoiselle Maillard's long face grew daily longer and more disapproving. Her air of injured pride wrapped her like an ominous mantle. She brooded on slights real and imagined. Henriette guessed in what light they were duly reported to the children's mother. Secretly elated over her triumph, Henriette determined to give her predecessor no cause for complaint. She made it a point to draw Mademoiselle Maillard into the conversation whenever possible, to take no apparent notice of sniffs, and frowns and pointed sighs. But perhaps she would have done better to return the order woman's hostility in kind; to repay envy with an envy she had no need to feel since the welfare of the east wing of Number 55 Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Honoré had now been transferred into the hollow of her hands. It was a spacious wing, this that housed the young Praslins and their staff; but it was not large enough for two governesses to reign equally supreme. Already the servants in their quarters were watching and laying bets on the probable winner.

Mademoiselle Maillard had lasted longer than other governesses and she was not without her household supporters. Madame Marguerite Leclerc, lady's maid to the Duchesse, and she were on the best of terms. Euphemia Merville, the concierge's wife, frequently invited her in to drink coffee on her free afternoons. Maxine and Renée, the nursemaids, had found her an easy superior; for she seldom interfered with their management of the children. Domestic newcomers were always regarded as natural enemies till time or some household crisis proved them to be otherwise; and there was about Mademoiselle Deluzy a crisp assurance of manner, a nicety of speech that prejudiced inferiors. Nothing escaped those keen hazel eyes of hers, and they knew it. She performed her own duties with conscientious and efficient scrupulousness; therefore she would not be apt to tolerate any laxness in others. Gone were the easy days when Mademoiselle Maillard reigned, wrapped in her own concerns, and the children's wing might safely gather a layer of dust or remain cluttered for days on end without comment.

The subject of the new governess's name had already aroused curious comment among the staff. Jean, the porter, and André, the footman, both insisted they had announced her first as Mademoiselle Desportes; yet here she was being addressed by all as Mademoiselle Deluzy. In all such matters Jean's memory was reliable, and it seemed strange indeed that this change should have occurred without explanation. They were unanimous in feeling that Deluzy was not a proper name for one they considered an upper servant no better than themselves—much too fanciful and high-flown for their approval; and they resented it unreasonably.

And then there was the matter of religion. Angéle, who cared for the rooms in the east wing, had reported that there was no sign of crucifix or rosary in Mademoiselle Deluzy's apartment. Only a Bible and a book in English with a cross on the cover kept them from branding her as an infidel. Perhaps, Angéle even dared to suggest, she might actually be one, and these some cunning ruse to deceive the Duc and Duchesse. Certainly she left the schoolroom during the Abbé Gallard's hours of religious instruction and remained apart till he left. Whatever her faith, it was not that of the Praslin household; and, since the Duchesse was devout almost to the point of fanaticism, this in itself took on the proportions of eccentricity.

Henriette herself was only half aware of this domestic disapproval. She expected a certain amount of antagonism in any household where a governess must keep her difficult footing in the shifting gulf that lies between drawing-room and kitchen. The social dignity of dinners and receptions was denied her as well as the hearty freedom of a servants' dining-room. It was lonely to be slightly more than maid and considerably less than mistress. But she had grown used to loneliness; her training in it had begun early. Experience had taught her immunity to slights and petty jealousies. She knew how far she might safely press her privileges and when to waive her authority, for her technique had been perfected in a hard school. She relied upon her personal magnetism and versatility to hold the affection of her young charges, and upon her tact, reliability, and skill as an instructress to win the parents to her side. Servants might at first resent her; but if they were good ones, they usually came to accept her in time. If they were inefficient they were not apt to remain long enough to cause her lasting inconvenience. But an old governess who must be met and placated at every turn presented an altogether different problem.

"Always a fly in the ointment," she thought, stirring in the green and gilt Empire bed as she prepared to rise and face the last day of her first week in the Faubourg-Saint-Honoré. "More like a spider than a fly, she is—and how she would love to see me packing my bags again!"

In spite of a downpour outside, the rooms seemed positively gay in their gold and green. Yellow draperies lent false sunshine to the small boudoir beyond her bedroom, and the thick carpet lay like green moss under her feet. After years of retiring to some cramped haven of an upper bedroom or an alcove adjoining the schoolroom with its mingled scents of chalk and ink and scalded milk, Henriette had been unprepared for the elegance and charm of what had already become a personal and private small world of her own. Each morning when she woke and each evening when she returned to this sanctuary, those rooms welcomed her with their bright ease till her spirit responded.

"Almost I can feel myself purr like a cat," she told her own reflection in the gilt-framed oval of mirror above her dressing-table.

To Henriette the mirror was more a symbol of new-found luxury than anything else in the whole apartment. More than the fire, the thick carpet, the comfortable bed and chairs, more even than the rosewood bureau that could be converted into a perfectly appointed desk, the mirror's flawless glass made her an equal, as it were, with women who were desirable to husbands or lovers. Heretofore some inadequate square of glass set too high, or dim with age and imperfections, had been good enough for a governess to take stock of her appearance. A good mirror need not be wasted on mademoiselle, since an inconspicuous neatness of person was all that any household expected of her. Indeed, to give more was regarded as a distinct breach of taste and propriety. Years afterwards Henriette could summon to her memory every curve of the gilded scrollwork which framed that glass. She never mentioned it to any one else, but to herself she admitted the part it had played in shaping her life, in making her a woman first, and a governess second.

She did not admit that there was a subtle, new incentive for her to appear her best upon all occasions. Until now she had not known what it was to feel the approval of a man's eyes as they rested upon her. Of course there had been a brief masculine encounter or two, such as passing friendships with the students at Madame Le Maire's. But these had been casual, and for the most part they had flourished upon mental congeniality. In London she had been consigned to the society of women. The Hislop dinners and receptions were middle-aged and formal, and those at which she had occasionally been privileged to "fill in" had brought no stimulating male contacts. A curate at the Protestant chapel she attended had shown her marked favour, conducting her home discreetly after service while he discoursed upon the varied trials and inspirations of his calling. But she had not warmed to his attentions. He was too meek and pallid to please her, and she found him a decided bore. If she had been less clever, or more sentimental, she might have endowed the curate or any other unattached male she managed to meet with qualities of mind and person supplied by her own imagination. She might have compromised because of her own loneliness. But Henriette did not take naturally to compromise and so, for all her shrewdness and intelligence, and for all her emotional need, she was still heart-whole and untouched as the two Praslin daughters who awaited her in the breakfast-room; as Mademoiselle Maillard, who grimly faced the narrowing horizon of her days. Henrientte's heart might be unscarred, but it was neither youthfully hopeful nor quiet with mature resignation. For the most part it obeyed her will, conforming to economic necessity as rigidly as her mind and body had done in those years between the convent and her return to Paris. Only sometimes, unaccountably, she was aware of its power.

"I am like a piano," she told herself sometimes, "a piano in a closed house. There it stands, capable of music, but doomed to silence because no one touched the keys. Who put me in a closed house to gather dust? Why am I lying here at twenty-eight years, alone in a narrow bed?"

Yesterday she had been reminded of her unanswered question. While Isabella and Louise were having their afternoon dancing lesson under Mademoiselle Maillard's watchfulness, she had been reading aloud to amuse the two younger children. Faintly along the corridor of the east wing the notes of a polka had sounded, and her wits had wandered though her lips mechanically uttered the words on the pages before her. The book was a collection of fairy tales, chosen emphatically by Berthe over the protests of Raynald, who had asked for Aesop's Fables.

"To-morrow it shall be your turn to choose, Raynald," Henriette had promised. "Now, Berthe, find the story you wish, and listen carefully because to-morrow I shall ask you to tell it to me in English."

They had settled themselves on a window-seat, and she had begun reading absently, half her mind on the distant music, the other half aware of the children's soft bodies pressed close on either side. Then suddenly the words took on reality. The old tale glowed with personal significance:

"And the Fairy Godmother spoke to the Princess and said, 'My child, I have only one gift to bestow upon you. Mark my words well, for once your choice is made it cannot be changed. It is within my power to give you happiness while you are young or happiness when you are old. What shall it be?'

"The Princess pondered in deep thought. 'It is a hard choice, dear Godmother, but if I spend all my share of happiness while I am young, then I shall have nothing left to look forward to; so let me have my happiness when I am old, and may heaven send me patience.'

"The Godmother then embraced her. 'You have made a wise choice, and you will not regret it, my dear. Go now with my blessing.'"

Henriette's voice had taken on a deeper note. The children had pressed closer, held by the dramatic intensity of her manner, and so absorbed had the three become in the story that they had not heard a door open and the Duc slip softly across the room to listen.

"And do you agree that she made the right choice?" His voice had startled them, breaking unexpectedly into the words of the book.

"No," Berthe's decisive answer rang out. "I think she was foolish to wait so long!"

"But what could she do?" Henriette had found herself smiling up at the Duc, while she pointed out the seriousness of the problem involved to the two little people beside her. "She had to choose one or the other."

"Couldn't she haye asked for a little when she was young and a little when she was old?" Raynald's precise small voice had volunteered as his dark eyes turned from Mademoiselle Deluzy to his father for reassurance.

"Ah, Raynald already shows signs of diplomacy." The Duc had smiled, drawing the frail, serious child close. "But it's not so easy as that, is it, Mademoiselle Deluzy?"

His tone had been light, but she had felt his eyes bent upon her. Site had tried not to look up, not to be drawn into the discussion, but she had not been able to keep herself apart. For all his bantering veneer of manner, she had felt a curious persistence behind his question, as if he really wanted to know her answer. When she had raised her eyes from the book, they met his intent gaze. His lips had been gay and smiling, but his eyes had held hers in a look of genuine appeal. She had caught the appraisal behind them, and this made her feel both elated and uncomfortable.

"No," she had answered in all seriousness, "it is not so easy as that. I hope I should have made as wise a choice as that princess, but not many are wise when they are young; and happiness isn't a little cake that can be cut to fit our needs, a crumb here, a slice there."

"If it were I'm afraid our little Berthe here would swallow hers much too fast." He had lifted the child to his lap and stroked the thick fair hair that was so like his own. "Go on, mademoiselle. I find myself as impatient as these two to hear the rest of the story."

He had watched her across the children's heads, his eyes still challenging, still grave above his smiling, red mouth. She had read on, stimulated by her new audience, giving her voice and mind to the unfolding of the tale. The Princess had suffered and been sorely tried. Thorns and a cruel stepmother had beset her path; her burdens had weighed heavily, and dangers beset her on every hand. The Prince had been long in arriving. Twilight had fallen on the schoolroom before they were united at last to live happily ever after and fulfil the Fairy Godmother's prophecy.

"Bravo, mademoiselle," the Duc had praised when she closed the book. "I shall know how to avoid boredom on other rainy afternoons. Do you know you are very dramatic? I came very near shedding a tear or two for that unfortunate heroine."

"Ah! Now you make sport of me, Monsieur le Duc." But Henriette had felt a pleased glow steal over her under cover of the darkening room.

"Mademoiselle Deluzy reads beautifully, Papa," the little girl's eager voice insisted. "She doesn't read like a mademoiselle at all, does she?"

"That's exactly what I was trying to tell Mademoiselle Deluzy." She felt that he turned to her again, though the room had grown too dim for her to see his face.

"That part where the Princess pleaded her innocence before they threw her into the dungeon would have done credit to the great Rachel herself. You caught the same tragic thrill of voice. It was extraordinary."

"Extraordinary indeed," Henriette had protested; "particularly since I have never heard or seen her."

"You have never seen Rachel?"

"No, Monsieur le Duc. You see I have been away in England, and now that I am no longer there she will pay her promised visit to London. Eh bien—so it goes."

"Well, well, that can be easily remedied. She has not crossed the Channel yet—"

The appearance of a servant to light the lamps and draw the curtains had interrupted his sentence.

Henriette had made no further comment. He had spoken impulsively, and there was no reason to expect him to remember his words.

Presently Mademoiselle Maillard had returned with Isabella and Louise and after a few words with them he had slipped away as quietly as he had come.

These unexpected visits of his gave a new zest to the days. At any moment he might appear in the schoolroom, now in the loose dressing-gown that lent such casual informality to his handsome face and figure; or again he might be in street attire with spotless fawn or dove-grey trousers strapped to shining boots, a high stock setting off his fairness, and a broadcloth coat of rich blue or green cut in the latest fashion. Only the night before, he had come in full evening regalia before he and the Duchesse departed for dinner and the opera. Henriette and the two older girls had been alone by the lamp-lit table, deep in the next day's history lesson. He had stood above them like a blond giant in snowy white and dense black, his silk hat shining and his opera cloak flowing from broad shoulders. Henriette had seen such apparitions alighting from carriages or strolling past cafés on the few occasions that she had been out at the hour when theatres and opera houses opened or closed their doors. But she had never been within a few feet of such a figure of masculine elegance, and the sight was extremely pleasant to her.

"Papa, are you going to a reception at the Palais Royal?" Isabella had cried in admiration.

"No, only to dine and then with Mamma to the opera."

"The opera? Oh, Papa, which one, and when shall we be old enough to go too?"

"Not too soon, Louise. For Isabella in two years perhaps; for you at least another three." He had smiled at their flushed impatience and flicked away a bit of lint from his lapel. "The opera is called 'Norma,' and I must confess I find it extremely boring. Thank God, most women do not lose their tempers or tell their most cherished secrets in high C!"

Henriette knew this comment had been added for her benefit. She would have liked nothing better than to retort with a smile: "A high C or D is nothing for a woman to reach when her temper is roused." But she had remained silent while the two girls surrounded their father with eager chatter and admiring comment.

"A gardenia for your boutonniere," one of them had cried. "Gardenias are Mamma's favourite flower. She told me so herself."

"How fortunate!" he had told them. "She is wearing a wreath of gardenias to-night. Here"—pulling the flower from his buttonhole, he had tossed it to the two before he turned to go. "I came to ask about Raynald, Mademoiselle Deluzy. He did not seem well to me this morning, and I wished to be reassured before we left."

"He complained of feeling chilly at supper, Monsieur le Duc; so I put him to bed early myself and saw that he took his medicine. I think"—she had hesitated before finishing her report—"it would have been better if he had not gone for the drive this afternoon."

"Most certainly he should not have gone. Why did you allow such a thing?"

Henriette had turned her eyes full upon him before she answered. "I was brought word by Mademoiselle Maillard that his mother wished him to go out with her. It was not my place to advise the Duchesse, though I did suggest that with his cough he should not be exposed to this raw wind."

"Next time you will do more than suggest." His voice had boomed at her across the book-strewn table. "I have made you responsible for the children, and there is to be no questioning your authority."

"But, Monsieur le Duc, if the children's mother—if the Duchesse decides otherwise?"

"I will speak to the Duchesse. I will tell her what I have told you. She is sometimes over-impulsive. Her affections run away with her sense. A mother's failing, you understand." His last words had been in the nature of a hurried afterthought.

"Certainly, I understand." Henriette had continued as if the conversation were of a most matter-of-fact sort—the next day's lessons, or a new lamp for the schoolroom. "I will do my best though my judgment may not always agree with hers, or with yours."

"The children's health and welfare must come before any preferences of my own or their mother's. I shall respect such rules as you may choose to make, mademoiselle. If you feel the need of advice, send for me, and we will consult together."

Henriette left her pupils at the table and followed him to the door. "And Mademoiselle Maillard?" She had not meant to mention the old governess so soon, but there was no help for it.

"It must be made plain that Mademoiselle Maillard is to take her orders from you from now on."

"I am grateful for your confidence in me, but perhaps you do not altogether realise that it puts me in a very difficult position."

"And you are afraid to face difficulty?" His fair brows had drawn together as his eyes met hers in direct challenge. "I confess that surprises me."

"I said a difficult position, and I repeat that, monsieur." Henriette had stood her ground, meeting challenge with challenge. Too late, she realised that she had unconsciously omitted to address him by his title. She had spoken to him as a man, rather than as a member of the nobility. But he had taken no notice apparently, and she had continued: "I never said that I was afraid. It would not be true. But you must know that this authority will be resented."

"By Mademoiselle Maillard?"

He had put the question directly, so she had seen no reason for veiling her answer.

"Yes, my presence is already resented by her. It could not be otherwise. I had not meant to speak of this so soon, but I am balked and hindered at every turn; and the children will suffer in consequence. No household can survive two governesses, and I should prefer that you, and the Duchesse chose between us."

"But it is not a matter of choice, mademoiselle. That has been already made. I only ask your patience for a little while longer. I ask you simply to go your own way and hear nothing, see nothing and feel nothing."

"That is not exactly a simple request. When one has eyes and ears and feelings—But I will try."

"And I will do the rest. You have my word."

"Thank you, Monsieur le Duc. I will visit Raynald again before we retire to make sure he is sleeping quietly and well covered. To-morrow he will be himself again, I hope."

He had given her a grateful smile as he turned back to caress the smooth dark heads of Isabella and Louise. The door had closed behind him, and the schoolroom had seemed very empty and quiet after his going. The clock had ticked loudly, and the fire had made its hissing accompaniment to the wind that rattled the casements in the darkness outside. Unconsciously, Henriette and the two girls had drawn closer together about the table with its green baize cover and scattered books. The gardenia lay there, too, incredibly white and glossy-leaved in a pool of lamplight, its fragrance increased by the warmth till it enveloped them all as if a languorous cloud of incense were slowly drugging their senses.

"Well, now to the Wars of the Roses again." Henriette had urged herself and her two pupils back to the interrupted lesson.

"Tell me, Louise, which English king could claim both the white rose of York and they red rose of Lancaster for his coat of arms?"

But Louise had yawned, and Isabella's attention had wandered. The confusing royal houses of England had faded into obscurity before the glorious reality of Papa in evening dress and gardenias and hints of the opera.

"Have you ever been to the opera, mademoiselle?" Isabella had broken in.

"Yes, my dear." Henriette had not added that it had been only once and then in a seat under the roof. "But come. We must finish the lesson for to-morrow."

"I can't seem to remember things that happened so long ago and in England, not France," Isabella had complained.

"When I taught a little English girl your age French history, she said the same thing," Henriette had answered with a smile. "She could not believe that anything important ever happened except in her own country. Now listen, and I will explain it again; and you will repeat the little verse after me:

"'With this seventh Henry both roses unite,

His own was the red and his wife's was the white.'

"See how easy it is to remember. The King's coat of arms had the red rose of Lancaster for an emblem, and the Queen's had the white rose of York."

"Just like Mamma and Papa," Louise had remarked unexpectedly. "She had a crest of her own before she married him, only his is better than hers."

"Well, Mamma had the most money," Isabella had hastened to add. "You know what Maxine and Renée said about the big dowry she brought him when they were married."

"Hush!" Henriette had difficulty in hiding the interest she felt. "You must never go about listening to what the servants say and repeating it."

"But Mademoiselle Deluzy, it must be true. Papa told us once himself that he could not rebuild the burnt wing at Melun until after he married. He said Grandfather Praslin couldn't afford to. It's a lovely place with woods and a little lake with a boat and swans. We'll be going there any day now. There'll be the bluest violets you ever saw, but I like Olmeto much the best."

"The better, Louise, just as you would say, 'I like blue better than red,' when you are comparing two of anything. What do you mean by Olmeto?"

"Oh, mademoiselle, don't you know? It's Grandpapa Sébastiani's place in Corsica, where Mamma lived when she was a girl. We go there nearly every August to be by the sea. You can pick up real coral on the beach and the pinkest—or is it the pinker shells?"

Henriette had closed the covers of the book before her. There was no use, she had told herself, in trying to continue with the Wars of the Roses when the flush of remembered happy experience had come to young cheeks, and young voices were so eagerly telling her of loved places. So she had given her whole attention to their recital, and when it had ended at half-past nine she had accumulated a vast number of useful details about life at Melun and in Corsica and many other bits of information concerning the manner in which the Duc and Duchesse passed their time in both places.

"Here, mademoiselle, you can have Papa's gardenia." Louise, the ever impulsive, had pressed the flower into her hand at parting for the night. "Only be sure to bring it back to the schoolroom to-morrow. It smells so sweet."

"And don't touch the petals—because they turn brown if you do," the methodical Isabella had added.

Henriette had lain awake a long time that night with the unaccustomed sweetness of the gardenia filling her room. Incredible that so small a thing should be so subtly disturbing to the chaste formula of her nights. But there it was, and she could not deny the response of her senses. It made the lavender sachets in her bureau drawers and her bottle of Cologne water seem poor and naïve by comparison. Suddenly she knew she had outgrown such simple scents, even as she had the innocent daisy wreaths of childhood. One might masquerade in such, but they no longer fitted a woman. Strange to be made so aware of this change in oneself, and by the fragrance of a single flower.

She had lain there in the dark wondering what it must be like to go to the opera with such a man as the Duc; to know that under all the excitement of footlights and music and such fragrance as this he sat beside one in a box, and later one would not return alone. Well, she would probably never know what that was like. One worked and was thankful for it, she had reminded herself sensibly. One made much of small blessings; one saved one's money against a rainy day and old age. In time one grew less sure of one's position; one faded and became difficult and bitter like Mademoiselle Maillard. Henriette was not given to indulging in such ruthless reveries, but that night she had not been able to disassociate herself from the old governess.

"Have I any reason to expect otherwise?" she had cried in smothered desperation into her pillow.

Sleep came at last to dry her wet cheeks. She woke renewed, and the black mood of the night before had fallen from her. The gardenia stood in a glass on the table, a drooping waxy flower in its cluster of dark green leaves. Only a stale ghost of its sweetness remained to haunt her as Henriette took stock of herself in the oval mirror where no suggestion of Mademoiselle Maillard met her careful scrutiny.