CHAPTER IX.
MADEMOISELLE VIRE.
"The Loires' chief virtues are their friends," Barbara had writtenhome, and it was always a surprise to her to find that they knew somany nice people. A few days after the adventurous visit to Mont St.Michel she made the acquaintance of one whom she learned to lovedearly, and about whom there hung a halo of romance that charmed thegirl.
"Her story is known to me," Mademoiselle Therese explained on the wayto her house, "and I will tell it you--in confidence, of course." Shepaused a moment to impress Barbara and to arrange her thoughts, for shedearly loved a romantic tale, and would add garnishing by the way ifshe did not consider it had enough.
"She is the daughter of a professor," she began presently. "They usedto live in Rouen--gray, beautiful, many-churched Rouen." The ladyglanced sideways at her companion to see if her rhetoric wereimpressive enough, and Barbara waited gravely for her to continue,though wondering if mademoiselle had ever read _The Lady of Shalott_.
"An officer in one of the regiments stationed in the quaint old town,"pursued mademoiselle, "saw the professor's fair young daughter, andfell rapturously in love with her. Whereupon they became betrothed."
Barbara frowned a little. The setting of the story was too ornate, andseemed almost barbarous.
"And then?" she asked impatiently.
"Then--ah, then!" sighed the story-teller, who thought she was making agreat impression--"then the sorrow came. As soon as his family knew,they were grievously angry, furiously wrathful, because she had no_dot_; and when she heard of their fury and wrath she nobly refused tomarry him until he gained their consent. 'Never,' she cried" (and itwas obvious that here mademoiselle was relying on her own invention),"'never will I marry thee against thy parents' wish.'"
She paused, and drew a long breath before proceeding. "A short timeafter this, the regiment of her lover was ordered out to India, inwhich pestiferous country he took a malicious fever and expired. Shehas no relatives left now, though so frail and delicate, but lives withan old maid in a very small domicile. She is cultivated to an extreme,and is so fond of music that, though her house is too small to admit ofthe pianoforte entering by the door, she had it introduced by thewindow of the _salon_, which had to be unbricked--the window, I mean.She has, moreover, three violins--one of which belonged to herever-to-be-lamented fiance--and, though she is too frail to stand, shewill sit, when her health permits, and make music for hours together."
Mademoiselle Therese uttered the last words on the threshold of thehouse, and Barbara did not know whether to laugh or to cry at such astory being told in such a way. The door was opened by the old maid,Jeannette, who wore a quaint mob cap and spotless apron, and whofollowed the visitors into the room, and, having introduced them to hermistress, seated herself in one corner and took up her knitting as"company," Mademoiselle Therese whispered to Barbara.
The latter thought she had never before seen such a charming old ladyas Mademoiselle Vire, who now rose to greet them, and she wondered howany one who had known her in the "many-churched Rouen days" could haveparted from her.
She talked for a little while to Mademoiselle Therese, then turnedgently to Barbara.
"Do you play, mademoiselle?"
"A little," the girl returned hesitatingly; "not enough, I'm afraid, togive great pleasure."
But Mademoiselle Vire rose with flushed cheeks.
"Ah! then, will you do me the kindness to play some accompaniments?That is one of the few things my good Jeannette cannot do for me," andalmost before Barbara realised it she was sitting on a high-backedchair before the piano in the little _salon_, while Mademoiselle Viresought eagerly for her music.
The room was so small that, with Mademoiselle Therese and the maidJeannette--who seemed to be expected to follow her mistress--thereseemed hardly room to move in it, and Barbara was all the more nervousby the nearness of her audience.
It certainly was rather anxious work, for though the little lady wascharmingly courteous, she would not allow a passage played wrongly togo without correction. "I think we were not quite together there--werewe?" she would say. "May we play it through again?" and Barbara wouldblush up to her hair, for she knew the violinist had played _her_ partperfectly. She enjoyed it, though, in spite of her nervousness, andwas sorry when it was time to go.
"You will come again, I hope?" her hostess asked. "You have given me ahappy time." Then turning eagerly to Jeannette, she added, "Did I playwell to-day, Jeannette?"
The quaint old maid rose at once from her seat at the door, and cameacross the room to put her mistress's cap straight.
"Madame played better than I have ever heard her," she replied.
Barbara had been so pleased with everything that she went again a fewdays later by herself, and this time was led into the garden, which,like the house, was very small, but full of roses and othersweet-smelling things. Madame--for Barbara noticed that most peopleseemed to call her so--was busy watering her flowers, and had on biggloves and an apron. When she saw the girl coming, she came forward towelcome her, saying, with a deprecatory movement towards her apron--
"But this apron!--These gloves! Had I known it was you, mademoiselle,I should have changed them and made myself seemly. Why did you notwarn me, Jeannette?"
"Madame should not work in the garden and heat herself," the old womansaid doggedly; "she should let me do that."
But madame laughed gaily.
"Oh, but my flowers know when I water them, and could not bear to haveme leave them altogether to others." Then, in explanation to hervisitor, "It is an old quarrel between Jeannette and me. Is it not, myfriend? Now I am hot and thirsty. Will you bring us some of your goodwine, Jeannette?"
They were sitting in a little bower almost covered with roses, andBarbara felt as if she must be in a pretty dream, when the maid cameback bearing two slender-stemmed wine-glasses and a musty bottlecovered with cobwebs.
"It is very old indeed," madame explained.
"Jeannette and I made it, when we were young, from the walnuts in ourgarden in Rouen."
Having filled both glasses, she raised her own, and said, with agraceful bow, "Your health, mademoiselle," and after taking a sip sheturned to Jeannette, repeating, "Your health, Jeannette." Whereuponthe old woman curtsied wonderfully low considering her stiff knees.
Barbara did not like the wine very much, but she would have drunkseveral glasses to please her hostess, though, fortunately, she was notasked to do so. They had a long talk, and the old lady related manyinteresting tales about the life in Rouen and in Paris, where she hadoften been, so that the time sped all too quickly for the girl. Whenshe got home she found two visitors, who were sitting under the treesin the garden waiting to have tea. One was an English girl of aboutfourteen, whom Barbara thought looked both unhappy and sulky. Theother was one of the ladies whose school she was at.
"This is Alice Meynell," Mademoiselle Therese said with some fervour,"and, Alice, _this_ is a fellow-countrywoman of your own." But theintroduction did not seem to make the girl any happier, and she hardlyspoke all tea-time, though Marie did her best to carry on aconversation. When she had returned to work with Mademoiselle Loire,the business of entertainment fell to Barbara, who proposed a walkround the garden.
At first the visitor did not seem to care for the idea, but when themistress with her suggested it was too hot to walk about, sheimmediately jumped up and said there was nothing she would like better.There seemed to be few subjects that interested her; but when, almostin desperation, Barbara asked how she liked France, she suddenly burstforth into speech.
"I hate it," she cried viciously. "I detest it and the people I amwith, who never let me out of their sight. 'Spies,' I callthem--'spies,' not teachers. They even come with me to church--one ofthem at least--and I feel as if I were in prison."
"But surely there is no harm in their coming to church with you?"Barbara said. "Besides, in France, you know, they have such strictideas about chaperones
that it's quite natural for them to be careful.Mademoiselle Therese goes almost everywhere with me, and I am a gooddeal older than you are."
"But they're _not_ Protestants--I'm sure they're not," the girlreturned hotly. "They shouldn't come to church with me; they onlypretend. Besides, they don't follow the other girls about nearly ascarefully. The worst of it is that I have to stay here for theholidays, too."
She seemed very miserable about it, and Barbara thought it mightrelieve her to confide in some one, and, after a little skilfulquestioning, the whole story came out.
Her mother was dead, and her father in the West Indies, and though shewrote him often and fully about everything, she never got any answersto her questions, so that she was sure people opened her letters andput in different news. She was afraid the same thing was done with herfather's letters to her, because once something was said by mistakethat could have been learned only by reading the news intended for hereyes alone.
"He never saw the place," the girl continued. "He took me to my auntin England, who promised to find me a school. She thought the wholebusiness a nuisance, and was only too glad to find a place quicklywhere they'd keep me for the holidays too. She never asks me to go toEngland--not that I would if she wanted me to."
There were angry tears in the girl's eyes, and Barbara thought the casereally did seem rather a hard one, though it was clear her companionhad been spoiled at home, and had probably had her own way beforecoming to school.
"It does sound rather horrid," Barbara agreed, "and three years mustseem a long time; but it will go at last, you know."
The girl shook her head.
"Too slowly, far too slowly--it just crawls. I never have any one totalk things over with, either, you see, for I can't trust the Frenchgirls; they carry tales, I know. Even now--look how she watches me;she longs to know what I'm saying."
Barbara looked round, and it was true that the visitor seemed moreinterested in watching them than in Mademoiselle Therese'sconversation; and, directly she caught Barbara's eye, she got uphastily and said they must go. Alice Meynell immediately relapsed intosulkiness again; but, just as she was saying good-bye, she managed towhisper--
"I shall run away soon. I know I can't stand it much longer."
The others were too near for Barbara to do more than give her a warmsqueeze of the hand; but she watched the girl out of sight, feelingvery sorry for her. If she had lived a free-and-easy life on herfather's plantation, never having known a mother's care, it was nowonder that she should be a little wild and find her present lifeirksome.
"She looks quite equal to doing something desperate," Barbara thought,as she turned to go in to supper. "I must try to see her again soon,for who knows what mad ideas a girl of only fifteen may take into herhead!"
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