Читать книгу Ride With Me - Thomas B. Costain - Страница 10

Table of Contents

There were in London many odd little corners which opened off busy streets but were themselves quiet to a suspicious degree in a city so given over to noise. They never boasted of more than one short block, and they came to dead ends against dirty brick walls, over which loomed the blank windows of warehouses or the rusty spires of unimportant churches. The houses always had one thing in common—a tendency to huddle closely together in shabby reticence. They were shaded from the sun in daytime and forbiddingly dark at night. People lived unobtrusively in these stagnant backwaters, and visitors were few, although the sound of footsteps led instantly to much drawing back of shabby curtains and apprehensive peering from upper windows; there being on the part of the inhabitants a constant dread of bill collectors and tipstaffs and even of the police.

Brinsley Place was one of these, and Frank Ellery shook his head uncomfortably at the thought of the family of the once great Comte de Salle living in such sordid surroundings. Number 24 was shabbier if possible than its neighbors. Its area steps showed wide cracks, and the paint was peeling in leprous strips off the plain front door. A small boy with an iron on one leg limped up the steps ahead of him. A bag of books strapped on his back and a small cotton bag clutched in one hand indicated that he was returning from school.

“Can you tell me, my fine kincher, if the Comte de Salle lives here?” asked Frank.

The boy nodded with grave politeness. “Yes, m’sieur. I am the son of Antoine, the butler. The Comte”—with a touch of pride—“occupies the whole of the ground floor.”

“Perhaps, then, you’ll show me the way in. I’ve come to see the Comte.”

“Yes, m’sieur.” The boy hesitated and then pointed to the knocker on the next door, about which was wrapped a pair of once clean white gloves. “If M’sieur will pardon me, I should very much like to know why it has been necessary for the Finnertys to do that.”

“It means the stork has paid a visit to the Finnerty home.” Seeing that he should be more explicit, Frank added, “A new baby has been left there.”

“Indeed! I am afraid, then, that the stork has made a serious mistake. It was wrong to leave the baby at the Finnertys’.”

“Why do you think that?”

“But, m’sieur! They have five children now, and it’s said M’sieur Finnerty is of limited means. They have only two rooms. And think, m’sieur, how bad it will be for the baby, having to grow up in the same house with Mick Finnerty!”

“You don’t admire Mick, I take it.”

The boy shook his head. “He is two years older than I am, and very large and strong. I sometimes wonder why the stork thought it necessary to leave him at any home at all.”

He opened the door and led the way inside. Frank found himself in a long and dark hall which ended in a flight of stairs. Laying a hand on the knob of the only door opening off the hall, the boy said: “My father will be with the Comte, I think. I shall speak to Margot. What is M’sieur’s name?”

“Ellery. I’m from the Tablet, a newspaper. I think the Comte will understand the purpose of my visit.”

“He sees very few people.” The boy hesitated and then nodded his head. “Margot will know what to do, m’sieur. We will leave it to her.”

Frank was greatly surprised at the appearance of the room into which they stepped. No candles had yet been lighted, but it was evident that it was of unusual dimensions and that the furnishings were on a scale of considerable grandeur. He could make out that the walls were covered with tapestries and large paintings, and that the chairs scattered about were handsome and old. The carpet under his feet was soft and yielding. The Comte, he decided, had managed to bring some of his finest things with him in his flight from France.

“Margot!” called the boy.

An agitation developed near the top of the heavy curtains which draped the front windows. Frank strained his eyes and saw that someone was perched there on a stepladder and that a duster was being applied briskly to the valances.

“Yes, Jean Baptiste Achille?” answered a preoccupied voice.

“There is a gentleman who asks to see the Comte, Margot.”

After a pause the figure of a girl descended the steps. She came forward, duster in hand, and bowed gravely to the visitor. Frank saw that she was quite young; not more than twelve, he decided. A smudge of dust from temple to temple accentuated the width of her brow, and under it her eyes looked enormous in a very thin and pointed face.

“Your name, m’sieur?”

“Francis Ellery. Of the Tablet newspaper.”

The girl pondered. Then she nodded to him and smiled. “I remember. Yesterday I mailed a letter to the Tablet. Perhaps it is about that, m’sieur?”

“Yes. I’m anxious to discuss it with the Comte.”

She bowed. “I shall speak to my uncle. I think he has wakened now and that Antoine is with him. Will M’sieur be seated, please?”

“Thank you, Mlle. Margot. If it’s inconvenient for the Comte to see me now, I can return at any time he may care to set.”

“No, it would be better now. He has been feeling a little better today.” She was seized with a sudden doubt. “M’sieur speaks French, I hope? My uncle has never learned English. He—he has refused to try. He says it would mean he expected to stay in this country. My uncle thinks every mail will bring word that the old order has come back in France. He is a—I’m afraid I have forgotten the word.”

“An optimist?”

She bobbed her head. “That is it. My uncle is a very great optimist. Each morning when he wakens he looks at the sky through his window and says to Antoine, ‘It will be a good day to start our journey’ or ‘It will be a bad day to start.’ Generally, of course, the weather is bad. He keeps all his papers packed so that he will be ready to go.”

“I admire him for it,” said Frank in French. “It takes a great heart to remain optimistic in these times. You, mam’selle, are quite adept at English. And so is this young fellow.”

The girl looked at Jean Baptiste Achille and nodded proudly. “Ah, yes, he is a fine little scholar, our Jean Baptiste Achille,” she said. “You see, he is not very strong, and it is hard for him to go to school with the English boys. They call him ‘Froggie’ and they tease him a great deal. But our stout Jean does not mind that at all. He is always at the head of his class. And he wins their marbles from the great, strong English boys. Don’t you, Jean Baptiste Achille?”

The boy’s eyes had a troubled look as he answered, “Yes, Margot.

“See! He has won again today. The bag is quite full.”

“He must be a dead shot, a regular demon with the alleys and commoneys.”

“Yes, he is clever, that one. Now I shall speak to my uncle.”

The small boy was about to follow her, but Frank said: “Stay with me, Jean. It may be some time before the Comte is ready. I’m very much interested in what you do at school.”

“It is not usual, m’sieur, for me to stay in this room.” The boy’s face had an unhappy look which puzzled Frank in view of all the praise which had been lavished on him. He walked to the hall door but turned when his grubby hand was on the knob. “I must be honest, m’sieur. I cannot let you believe the things Margot has said.” He gulped as though on the point of tears. “You see, m’sieur, I am not strong and I will never be a fine big man like my father. He was a soldier once, and I know he does not like it that I can never be a soldier too. I am sure they are all disappointed in me, and so I try to make them proud of me about other things.” He gulped again. “M’sieur, I am never head of my class. I am often at the very foot. The teacher says I am a dunce, and all the boys laugh at me. Mick Finnerty calls me a nickin and a nizey. That’s the truth, m’sieur.”

“You mustn’t let that worry you, Jean Baptiste Achille. After all, it’s hard for a French boy to do well in an English school. I’m sure this Mick Finnerty would be at the bottom of the class if he had to go to a French school. You would be calling him a—whatever you call nickins in French.”

“Très bête!” said the boy eagerly.

“Yes, très bête. And then, of course, you’re the champion at knuckledown. That makes up for a great deal.”

Jean Baptiste Achille shook his head miserably. “No, m’sieur. That also is not the truth. Never once have I won at holy-bang. I am even very poor at ringtaw and bounce-eyes.”

“But you still have a good supply in your bag.”

“Observe. They are stones, m’sieur. I carry them so no one will know I have lost all I had.”

Frank looked down at the small figure. “You’re a brave boy, Jean Baptiste Achille. And a very honest one to tell me about this.”

He fished half a crown from his pocket and put it in the boy’s hand. The small fingers closed over the coin convulsively.

“A slat, m’sieur! A whole slat, and all for me! Or perhaps”—another gulp, full of the agonies of doubt—“M’sieur expects me to get him change.”

“No, Jean Baptiste Achille, no change. It’s all for you. A reward for a very honest boy.”

“All for me! M’sieur, it is riches! Once I was given a bardy, but it was a mistake and I had to give it back. And what is a sixpence to a full slat!” His hand was still on the knob but he did not go. He seemed to be struggling with more doubts. “Does M’sieur know that a bardy would buy all the commoneys I need, and even a blood alley?”

“Yes, I still remember something about prices. Use the rest to buy other things. You must get hungry, on the walk from school. Now you can buy yourself a Banbury Cross bun sometimes, or make a deal with the candy man.”

“M’sieur is very generous.” The boy still hesitated. “I hope it will not be necessary to tell Margot what I told him.”

“No, Jean Baptiste Achille, your secret is safe with me.”

The girl Margot came back almost immediately with a silver phos bottle in her hand. “My uncle is feeling well after his afternoon nap. He will be glad to see you.” She caught a light at the neck of the bottle and applied it to one of a dozen candles in the sockets of a high torchère. “We will have one only, if M’sieur does not mind. You see, there is to be a large company tonight, and we must be careful of the supply.”

Frank saw by the light thus provided that she had washed the dust from her forehead and had donned a cap with a blue ribbon in it. She looked almost pretty now, in spite of the disproportion of her brow and eyes to the rest of her face, and the adult gravity of her manners.

“I’m causing you a great deal of trouble,” he said.

“No, no, m’sieur. It’s a pleasure. We have so few people here. My uncle is very set about some things. He receives only his old friends. The line is drawn even at the Creoles. I think sometimes it’s a pity. The Creoles are very gay, and they’re much more prosperous than my uncle’s friends. Money is coming through to them now from their estates in the islands, and they’re able to live very well. No money comes through from France at all. Sosthène and Gabrielle would like to make friends with some of the Creoles, but my uncle is very firm and won’t allow it. He says we must never compromise.”

“I can see your uncle is a determined character.”

“Yes indeed, m’sieur. There was a German baron who was very much in love with Gabrielle and wanted to marry her. He was quite wealthy, and Sosthène was losing money at the time, but my uncle sent him away. Sosthène—he’s my cousin and will inherit the title someday and the estates, if we ever get back to France—was rather taken with a Creole heiress just recently, but my uncle said he would disown him.” She paused and sighed. “I’m talking too much. Will M’sieur excuse me now? I have other work to do.”

The light of the single candle enabled Frank to get a better look at the contents of the room. He inspected the paintings first and was amazed to discover that some of them were the work of the greatest French artists. There was a Poussin, a LeBrun, a Le Sueur, a Vernet, even a Claude Lorrain. The apartment was filled with beautiful and quite obviously costly articles. There were fine cabinets containing porcelains and silver objets d’art, and a long table at one end, set out with a silver service and much fine glass. He looked closely at a gold clock on the mantel above the fireplace and saw that a tag was attached to one of its legs; unmistakably a pawnbroker’s ticket. The clock, then, had been out, and the tag had been overlooked when it was redeemed and restored to its place. “That’s most odd,” he thought. “They could live very well for a long time on the sale of one of those pictures.”

He had returned to the Claude Lorrain and was studying it with a sense of real pleasure when the door at the far end opened again. A creaking Bath chair, in which was huddled an old and very sick man, was wheeled in by a solemn male servant. The occupant was wrapped up to his yellow chin in a worn pink dressing gown and held on his lap a black cat as ancient and sickly as himself.

“Good day, m’sieur,” said the old man. “You are from the Tablet, I am told. The proprietor, yes? I take it you have received my letter?”

The servant wheeled the chair over toward the fireplace. He looked first at the wood laid there and then, inquiringly, at his master. The Comte de Salle shook his head in a firm negative and then suggested to Frank that he take a chair beside him. “My hearing is no longer good, M’sieur Ellery. I think it is the continued cold and dampness. You need sunlight and warmth to keep from growing old and useless.”

“It’s been an uncomfortable autumn,” agreed Frank, seating himself.

“You were looking at my pictures, m’sieur, and wondering perhaps why I live in a quarter such as this and yet keep a fortune in pigment on my walls.” The Comte’s thin cheeks wrinkled in a mirthless smile. “I don’t enjoy being thought guilty of inconsistency. These are copies, m’sieur. The originals were in my Paris house. An artist, who had received many good commissions from me and conceived himself in my debt, made these copies after I left. He managed to get them out of the country and to me here. They are remarkably good and they afford me a great deal of pleasure. Where the originals are now I do not know. Probably they have been taken by Bonaparte or some member of his thieving family.” He looked up sharply at the servant. “Come, Antoine, I need you no longer here. There are other duties for you.”

The cat on his lap opened a rheumy eye and gave a complaining squeak. The heavily veined hand of his master caressed his head. “My old Thibault is not well,” said the Comte. “I think it has become a race between us as to who will go first. Probably it will be poor Thibault, for it is ordained I shall see France again before I die. There is little comfort for those as old as Thibault and I. He has only one tooth left, and I—I am somewhat lacking in that respect also.”

“I’ve called on you, sir,” said Frank, “because I wanted to make it clear that the item in my paper was no more than a report of what had been said in the House. It occurred to me also that a paper might be published to give the other side of the question. It would be interesting and, perhaps, helpful.”

The Comte turned his shoulders painfully in the direction of his visitor and said with a sudden access of energy: “It is incredible, m’sieur, that any of the French people living in this country could be in the pay of that bloody butcher and thief! They would die rather than give any aid to the usurper!”

“I’m sure that applies to all those you know, M’sieur le Comte. It’s a fact, however, that three men were caught today who had been sending out information. I’m afraid it must be admitted that greater caution is necessary on the part of our government.”

“Three Frenchmen?” The yellow mask showed both scorn and indignation. “I refuse to acknowledge them as countrymen. They were spies, paid informers, m’sieur. That is entirely beyond the point. Scum of the kind is spawned by every race, even the French. I did not refer to them. I spoke only for the members of my own class, the people who have ruled France for many centuries.”

“Then what remains to be done is to establish the difference. That I’ll be glad to do.”

“Exactly, m’sieur. We who represent the real France must not be saddled with the sins of common traitors and Bonapartist spies.”

Frank’s back was to the door. He heard it open but could not see who had entered. Was it the daughter of the house? A sense of delight flooded over him when he heard her voice say: “Here I am, Father. Have I been selfish in staying away from you so long?”

His stiff leg made rising difficult, and he was bitterly conscious of the awkwardness of his movements. With the first glance he realized that his memory of her had been completely inadequate. Gabrielle de Salle looked radiant in a dark red wraprascal, which muffled her up to the chin, and a small fur turban with a pompon of the same color on top. The sharp bite of the wind had put a flush in her cheeks, and her eyes were sparkling. She was taller than he had thought and infinitely more lovely.

“I have a visitor, Gabrielle,” said the Comte. His tone made it clear that no introduction was to be made, but the girl crossed the room toward them, nevertheless, dropping a parcel on a marquetry table as she passed. Her eyes were fixed inquiringly on Frank.

“I’m sure I know you, m’sieur,” she said, smiling at him. “But of course! You were the man in the fog!”

“Yes, mademoiselle. I trust you had less difficulty in getting home that night?”

“Oh, it had cleared long before we left. We were very gay that time. We danced until after two o’clock. Do you remember, Father, that I told you of our difficulty and how a very kind Englishman saw to it that we did not have to spend hours on the top of an uncomfortable omnibus?”

“I am glad of the opportunity of thanking M’sieur Ellery,” said the old man. His tone was both stiff and reluctant but, as Frank noted with satisfaction, he had compromised to the extent at least of mentioning his name.

“I see now that I got an entirely wrong impression of you that evening,” went on the girl, unloosening the neck of the wraprascal. “Of course, I saw little of you but the back of your head while I was holding on to your coattails. Don’t frown, please, Father; you have no idea what it’s like to be caught in one of those terrible fogs. You’re thankful for a coattail to hold, I promise you. I remembered you, m’sieur, as very tall and very dark and with a very large nose. Now I see how wrong I was.”

Frank’s mind was in such a whirl that he found it hard to speak. He managed to say, finally: “A fog will sometimes cause curious illusions, particularly in the matter of size. I remember thinking once that the golem was loose in London and bearing down on me out of the mist. It proved to be a greengrocer with a basket of turnips on his head.”

Gabrielle de Salle laughed. Her voice was silvery and with an infectious note to it. Frank joined in. “That accounts, then,” she said, “for my mistake in the matter of your nose. Now that I see it more clearly, it’s a very creditable nose. Do you still drill with broomsticks?”

“We drill every day. But we have castoff army muskets now, and that’s a very important advance.”

“Splendid, m’sieur! Perhaps we shall beat the terrible Bonaparte after all.”

The Comte continued to stroke the back of the cat with an unsteady hand. “It’s a record of the firmest devotion, that of the exiles of France,” he said, as though speaking to himself. “Twelve and more years we have had of it. Poverty, suffering, uncertainty; driven from one refuge to another, never sure where the next day would find us; waiting, hoping, for something which never happened. We have endured under the fogs of London and the snows of the Baltic, thinking always of the warm sun of our lovely France.” He looked up suddenly. “Are you aware, young sir, that it would be very easy to return to France now? That it has been so ever since the Corsican assumed the imperial title?”

Frank nodded. “I’ve heard that Napoleon has been striving to get the old families back and has been offering concessions.”

“We would be received with open arms. Our estates would be restored, our titles recognized. The usurper thinks his throne would be secured if he could rally the old nobility back of him. He thinks we will be only too glad to lend him that support after wandering for so many years in the wilderness. But he is wrong, m’sieur! We will continue to suffer, we will die in exile rather than give in to this assassin.”

Thinking how many of the émigrés were accepting the bait of reinstatement and returning to France to make their peace with the new order, Frank said to himself, “Here’s one family which will stand out in spite of everything.”

“That is what should be said about the exiles of France,” went on the old man. “There should be no doubting of their honor or their good faith, m’sieur. They are a devoted band, and all their hopes are bound up with the cause of this country. You cannot know the extent of our devotion, young sir. One of our group has made a vow never to wear a hat until he sees again the towers of his home in Tours. Another wears a blue ribbon even in his bath, being unwilling to live a single moment without the feel of it around his neck. This may sound comic, m’sieur, but to me it is proof of a great depth of faith.” He paused. His train of thought had carried him away from the present, for he looked at his daughter as though he had been unaware of her for the moment. “You are back, Gabrielle. That is good. You will add your persuasions to mine, and between us we may get the consent of M’sieur”—he frowned uncertainly—“M’sieur Ellery to join us at dinner tonight.”

This was so much more than he had dared hope for that Frank felt a great surge of elation. He was being offered a whole evening in which to feast his eyes on her warm beauty, to hear her voice! There would be further chances to talk with her, to improve his slim acquaintance. It seemed incredible that such great luck should be his. He wondered why the Comte had suddenly become so cordial.

“We are having a few of our oldest friends with us,” continued the Comte. “All of them have been in London for many years. I often wonder how some of these brave people continue to subsist. Their resources are so slender, m’sieur! But they remain constant to their faith in spite of everything. I would like you to see for yourself, young sir, to become convinced of what I have told you.”

The girl’s eyes smiled to second the invitation. Frank rose and bowed. “I shall be very happy to join you. At what hour do you dine?”

“At six. We are poor, m’sieur, and we dine simply. You must be prepared for plain fare. But the company will be pleasant, the talk good; that much I can promise you.” He turned to his daughter. His head was beginning to tremble on the withered stalk of his neck. “Gabrielle, my dear, I think our visitor will forgive me now. I have allowed my emotions to become seriously involved, and it is trying on an old man. Will you summon Antoine?”

When father and daughter were alone, the girl said with a suggestion of a frown: “Father! Why did you do that? It was the very last thing in the world I expected of you. And I must say I’m worried about food. We are never lavish in our preparations, you know.”

“There will be plenty. I am sure our industrious little Margot has been the good provider as usual. She can stretch our resources to cover another place.” His head had fallen against the reclining back of the Bath chair. “It was an impulse. I am not subject to them, as you know, my dear. I have never done such a thing before, but there was something about that young man. I am sure he can help us.” He sighed wearily. “It is apparent that he is quite opulent, my dear. He may prove a little more generous than our regular guests. Has Sosthène told you he has been having no luck at all lately? We may soon be at the point of parting with more of our things.”

Gabrielle threw off her wraprascal. She was dressed in a very plain dress of a becoming gray, which fell in straight lines from the high waistline of the mode. The tip of a worn slipper showed for a moment when she began to walk toward the door in the rear.

“I hate all this, Father!” she exclaimed. “I’m not sure I can stand it any longer. Why can’t we be more honest? Perhaps what I have to tell you will make you see what I mean. There is news. It seems that His Majesty has been gracious enough to extend permission to all his noble subjects, who care to do so, to engage in work without losing caste. None of our privileges will be withdrawn because of it.”

There was a moment’s silence. “That is indeed gracious of His Majesty,” said the old man earnestly. “It is most generous. It will relieve the minds of so many of our friends who have been compelled to take employment.”

“Father!” Gabrielle walked beside the chair which Antoine was now wheeling to the rear. She laid a beseeching hand on his arm. “Don’t you think you could consent now if Sosthène and I were to find some kind of work to do? Sosthène never seems to win any more. Perhaps his luck has deserted him for good. We lived on it for so long, Father! He’s finding it very hard to keep up appearances. I can work in a dress shop if nothing better offers. I’m strong, Father. And then think—we wouldn’t have to give more dinners like this!”

The Comte shook his weary head. “Please don’t discuss it now, my dear. I am very tired. I lack the resolution to face such a problem at the moment.” His voice fell to such a low note that it was hard to follow him. “Why are you away so much? I miss you, Gabrielle.”

A visitor would have been shocked at the contrast between the fine drawing room, with its luxurious appointments, and the rest of the apartment. The rear door led to a windowless box of a hall from which three doors opened. Those to right and left were ajar, revealing two miniature bedrooms. One of these was occupied by the Comte, for Antoine halted the Bath chair at the door. It was so completely filled by a four-poster bed that no room was left for either washstand or chair. The other had a cot only and so permitted a washstand in one corner. The fact that a handsome satin coat was draped over the baseboard of the cot, and that a sword was suspended from a nail on the wall, indicated that this bare cubicle was dedicated to the slumbers of Sosthène. The conclusion could easily be drawn that the two male De Salles shared the washstand between them.

While Antoine proceeded to help his master from the creaky vehicle to the bed, Gabrielle walked through the third door into the kitchen. It was a large room, lighted by one economical candle and filled with a tantalizing odor of food. Margot was at the table, engaged in the task of making ice cream. She had set the dish containing the mixture in a huge bowl of ice and salt and was agitating it briskly with a pewter spoon.

Gabrielle almost danced up to her small cousin and opened her purse with an air of intense pride. “See, Margot! I was paid today. Ten whole shillings! Money, Margot, money; and honestly earned. I was so excited when Mme. Lebery handed it to me. Now we can pay a little to Antoine on his back wages, and we can get a piece of muslin for a new curtain—I’m sure the Finnertys can see us dressing through that hole—and a new hat for you, my uncomplaining Margot. It will have to be a cheap one, though.”

Margot suspended the movement of her thin arm. “That’s splendid, Gabrielle. I’m as proud about it as you are. And Uncle Robert does not suspect anything. At least, I don’t believe he does. But about the money now. You mustn’t be rash, Gabrielle. Antoine, yes, he must have a little. The bonnet for me will have to wait. I go out so seldom anyway that it’s not as necessary as so many other things.” She sighed. “I spent the last of the household purse in the marketing.”

“How did you do about dinner?”

“Quite well, I think. I’ve kept the cost down to a shilling a head.”

“Then we’ll have a good profit tonight. I’m sure I don’t see how you manage it, Margot.”

“I asked Father Jean to get the fish for us. They’re always kind to priests at the fish market. He got all we needed for one shilling. Sole, Gabrielle, and very firm and good. The soup is made. I have everything ready for the ragout. And, see, we are to have ice cream.”

“Excellent! Our guests will be very happy tonight. You are a worker of miracles, Margot.”

Gabrielle vanished behind an arrangement of screens which closed off one side of the kitchen. The niche thus provided served as a bedroom for the two girls. Wires were stretched from one screen to another, and on them articles of clothing were suspended with clothespins: a few—a very few—dresses, covered with muslin bags, stockings (recently washed and pitifully limited in number), a few more intimate garments of good material but lacking the fine embroidery which ladies of fashion demanded, even a small variety of hats. Loops of cord had been sewn to the back of the screens to serve as holders for half a dozen pairs of shoes of all kinds.

Against the wall were two bunks, one above the other as in the cabin of a ship, made out of plain pine boards. These primitive beds were made comfortable, however, by the finest of mattresses (brought from France with the rest of the furniture, no doubt) and were given a bravely frivolous appearance by richly embroidered coverlets of the finest satin. A close inspection would have revealed the fact that both coverlets had been neatly darned in many places and were wearing dangerously thin.

Her fingers busy with the strings of an apron, Gabrielle called to her cousin: “I’ll be with you in a minute, my Margot. And, oh! We have another guest tonight.”

“Another!” There was dismay in the voice of the young cousin, and for a brief second the beating of the spoon ceased. “Oh dear, that will make things difficult. The soup is ample, of course, and there will be plenty of the fish. I’m not sure of the ragout. I suppose we’ll have to be generous, then, in the helpings of the fish and put another egg in the dressing.”

“It’s an Englishman who visited Father today. He has just left.”

“M’sieur Ellery. I talked to him.” The beat of the spoon went briskly again, and in Margot’s voice there was a suggestion that she was reconciled to the idea of the additional mouth to be fed. “I’ll do the very best I can, Gabrielle. I liked M’sieur Ellery. He’s quite nice-looking, I think.”

“Not at all handsome, Margot.” The daughter of the house was encasing her feet in comfortable slippers of knitted wool. “One gets so tired before the end of the afternoon. I was running all day long, I believe. Upstairs and down! He’s pleasant enough. M’sieur Ellery, I mean.”

The voices of the cousins went back and forth across the patched screens.

“Is Jules coming?”

“Yes, Gabrielle. He sent a note this morning. You must look your best. The light green muslin, perhaps?”

“I don’t know. I was thinking of the white tonight.”

“Your very best! Gabrielle! Jules will think you do him great honor. Perhaps he’ll speak tomorrow to Uncle Robert.”

“I don’t know. Margot?”

“Yes, Gabrielle.”

“It will be nice to have a new face at dinner tonight. Even if he is an Englishman.”