CHAPTER V.
GOOD-BYE TO PARIS.
The days in Paris flew past far too quickly for Barbara, who enjoyedeverything to the full.
As she came to know her aunt better, and got accustomed to her drymanner and rather exact ways, she found her to be a really goodcompanion, not altogether lacking in humour, and having untiring energyin sight-seeing and a keen sympathy with Barbara's delight in what wasnew.
Perhaps Miss Britton, too, was gaining more pleasure from the trip thanshe had expected, for up till now she had seen her niece only as one alittle sobered by responsibility and the constraint of her ownpresence. Whatever the cause, it was certain that during the pastfortnight Miss Britton had felt the days of her youth nearer her thanfor some time, and it was with mutual regret that they reached the lastday of their stay in Paris.
They were sitting together on the balcony, with the bees very busy inthe lilac-bush near them, and the doves murmuring to each other at theend of the garden. Barbara was reading a guide-book on Brittany, andMiss Britton, with her knitting in her hands, was listening to bits thegirl read aloud, and watching a little frown grow between the eyebrows.It was curious how the frown between the dark brows reminded her of herdead brother; and after a moment she laid down her knitting.
"Barbara was reading a guide book on Brittany."]
"You may think it a little unkind, Barbara," she began, "that I am notcoming with you to see what kind of place it is to which you are going,but I think it is good for a girl to learn to be independent andself-reliant. I made careful inquiries, and the people seem to be verygood at teaching French--they used to live in Paris--and they are quiterespectable. Of course, you may not find everything just as you likeit, and if it is really unpleasant, you can write me, and I shallarrange for you to return here. But Paris would be more distractingfor you to live in, and in a week or two far too hot to be pleasant.
"Besides, I should like you really to _study_ the language, so that youmay profit by your stay in France, as well as enjoy it. If I stayedwith you you would never talk French all the time." She stopped amoment, and took a stitch or two in her knitting, then added in a tonequite different from her usual quick, precise way, "Your father was asplendidly straight, strong man--in body and mind. Try to be like himin every way. He would have wished his eldest daughter to be sensibleand courageous."
Barbara flushed with pleasure at the praise of her father. She hadnever heard her aunt mention him before, and she leaned forwardeagerly, "Thank you, Aunt Anne--I want to be like him."
She would gladly have kissed her, but the family habit of reserve wasstrong upon her.
"Let me see," continued her aunt, "can you ride?"
Barbara laughed.
"I used to ride Topsy--the Shetland, you know--long ago, but fathersold him."
Her eyes followed her aunt's across the garden and the end of thestreet, to the distant glimpse of the Bois de Boulogne, where riderspassed at frequent intervals, and her eyes glowed. "Doesn't it lookjolly?" she said. "I used to love it."
Aunt Anne nodded.
"I used to ride in my youth, and your father rode beautifully before hewas married, and when he could afford to keep a horse. He would likeyou to have done so too, I think. If there is any place where you canlearn in St. Servan, you may. It will be a good change from yourstudies."
"Oh, aunt!" and this time reserve was thrown to the winds, and Barbaramost heartily embraced her. "Oh, how perfectly splendid of you! Ithas always been my dream to ride properly, but I never, never thoughtit would come true."
"Dreams do not often," Miss Britton returned, with a scarcely audiblesigh; then she gathered up her soft white wool. "There is the firstbell, child, and we have not changed for dinner. Come, be quick."
The next morning a heavily-laden cab passed from the Rue St. Sulpicethrough the gates into the city. Miss Britton, finding that a friendof the Belvoirs was going almost the whole way to St. Servan, hadarranged for Barbara to go under her care. But it was with veryregretful eyes that the girl watched the train, bearing her aunt away,leave the station, and she was rather a silent traveller when, later inthe morning, she was herself _en route_ for St. Servan.
Not so her companion, however, a most talkative personage, who washardly quiet five minutes consecutively. She poured forth all sorts ofconfidences about her family and friends, and seemed quite satisfied ifBarbara merely nodded and murmured, "_Comme c'est interessant!_" thoughshe did not understand nearly all her companion said. The latterpointed out places of interest in passing, and finally, with aneffusive good-bye, got out at the station before St. Servan.
As the train neared its destination, Barbara looked anxiously to seewhat the town was like, and her disappointment was great at the firstglimpse of the place. When the family had looked up the Encyclopaediafor a description of St. Servan, it seemed to be that of a small,old-fashioned place, and Barbara had pictured it little more than avillage with a picturesque beach. Instead of that, she saw manyhouses, some tall chimneys, and quays with ships lying alongside. Itwould have cheered her had she known that the station was really aconsiderable distance from the town, and in the ugliest part of it; butthat she did not find out till later.
Outside the station were many vociferous cab-drivers offering to takeher anywhere she liked, and, choosing the one whose horse seemed bestcared for, she inquired if he knew where the house of MademoiselleLoire, Rue Calvados, was. Grinning broadly he bade her step in, andpresently they were rolling and bumping along rough cobble-stonedstreets. Barbara had further imagined, from the description of thehouse that Mademoiselle Loire had sent them, that it was a villastanding by itself, and was rather surprised when the _fiacre_, afterclimbing a very steep street, stopped at a door and deposited herselfand her trunks before it. Almost before she rang the bell she heardhurried steps, and the door was opened by some one whom she imaginedmight be the housekeeper.
"Is Mademoiselle Loire in?" she inquired of the thin and severe-lookingwoman with hair parted tightly in the middle.
"I am Mademoiselle Loire," she replied stiffly in French, "and you, Isuppose, are Miss Britton! I am sorry there was no one at the stationto meet you, but we did not expect you so soon."
"Did you not get my post-card?" Barbara asked.
"I could not possibly do that," Mademoiselle Loire returnedreprovingly; "it was posted in Paris far too late for _that_. However,perhaps you will now come into the _salon_," and Barbara followedmeekly into a room looking out upon the garden, and very full of allkinds of things. She had hardly got in before she heard a bustle onthe stairs, which was followed by the entrance of Mademoiselle ThereseLoire. Her face was not so long nor her hair so tightly drawn back asher sister's, and she came forward with a rush, smiling broadly, but,somehow, Barbara felt she would like the prim sister better.
After asking many questions about the journey they took her to herroom, and Barbara's heart sank a little. The house seemed dark andcold after that in Neuilly, and her bedroom was paved with red brick,as was the custom in those parts in old houses.
The dining-room--smelling somewhat of damp--was a long, low roomleading straight into the garden, and the whole effect was ratherdepressing. At supper-time, Barbara was made acquainted with the restof the household, which consisted of an adopted niece--a plump girl ofabout seventeen, with very red cheeks and a very small waist--and twoboys about twelve, who were boarding with the Loires so that they mightgo to the Lycee[1] in the town. After supper, Mademoiselle Thereseexplained that they usually went for a walk with the widower and hischildren who lived next door.
"Poor things!" she said, "they knew nobody when they came to the town,and a widower in France is so shut off from companionship that wethought we must be kind to them. They have not a woman in the houseexcept a charer, who comes in the first thing in the morning."
Barbara, with a chuckle over the "charer," went to put on her hat, andon coming into the dining-room again, found the widower and his sonsalrea
dy there. Something in the shape of the back of the elder manseemed familiar to her, and on his turning round to greet her, sherecognised her little friend of the train on their first arrival inFrance. The recognition was mutual, and before she had time to speakhe rushed forward and poured forth a torrent of French, whileMademoiselle Therese clamoured for an explanation, which he finallygave her.
At last he had to stop for want of breath, and Barbara had time to lookat his sons--boys of twelve and sixteen--who seemed a great care tohim. All the three, father and sons, wore cloaks with hoods to them,which they called _capucines_, and as there was very little differencein their heights, they made rather a quaint trio. Barbara was glad tosee him again, however, for it seemed to bring her aunt nearer.
It amused her considerably to notice how Mademoiselle Therese flew fromone party to another, during the whole of the walk, evidently feelingthat she was the chaperon of each individual. She started out besidethe widower, but soon interrupted his conversation by dashing off togive a word of warning to the boys, and what was supposed to be a wordof encouragement to Barbara, who was walking with Marie, the niece, andthe widower's eldest son.
It did not make much difference to them, for Jean and Marie seemed tohave plenty to say; and after addressing a few careless remarks toBarbara, to which, perhaps, she did not pay much attention, the latterheard her say to her companion, "Bah! there is nothing to be made ofher; let us continue;" and she was glad they left her alone that firstevening, for she was not in the mood for talking.
[1] Public school.
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