The Girl from Paris

by Joan Aiken

  But there were endless unpleasant insinuations in the press. “What part does the charming young English lady residing at the Hôtel Caudebec play in this marital disaster?” disagreeably inquired the Globe. “M. le Comte de la Ferté was married to one Englishwoman; could it be that he enjoyed a ménage à trois à l’anglaise?” Le Monde asked why Ellen had not been arrested; Le Siècle suggested that she be deported without delay. There were sinister rumors, apparently emanating from some of the servants at the Hôtel Caudebec—suggestions of late-night assignations and long confidential interviews between the Comte de la Ferté and the mysterious young English lady.

  Ellen had to suffer, besides this unpleasantness, the continuous irritable faultfinding and disapproval of Princess Tanofski, who, though fully prepared to make use of Ellen in a secretarial capacity, made it plain that she considered the latter’s dealings with Germaine disloyal and reprehensible. And Lady Morningquest, who spent a great deal of time at the Hôtel Caudebec, occupied most of it in scolding and reproaching Ellen.

  “I brought you to Paris—introduced you to a life of interest and luxury—gave you such opportunities as will never come your way again—and what is the result? Without lifting a finger to prevent it, you allow this disaster to take place!”

  Ellen felt some of these reproaches to be unjust. Part of the blame, she thought, must at least rest with Lady Morningquest, who had permitted her niece to make such an unfortunate alliance. But of course one could not say this; it was impossible to defend herself; and Ellen was so miserable that she made no attempt to, simply bowed under the storm of commination and waited numbly for it to die away. Indeed, she was still too shocked and distressed to have very clear opinions about it all. And she felt horribly lonely—she missed little Menispe; willful, teasing, difficult, the child had been, but it was a challenge to catch her wayward attention, and she had not lacked the capacity to feel: witness her devotion to her father. Of Raoul, what his grief and wretchedness must be like, Ellen hardly dared think. She missed his friendly presence too, and Germaine’s quick-witted lively company. While the memory of poor Louise—antagonistic, despairing, trapped—was almost too painful to be borne.

  On the day before the funeral, Raoul was unexpectedly released. This was due to the fact that another letter from Louise, written to Lady Morningquest at Etretat, came back to Paris, forwarded from the hotel where the latter had been staying. This letter, like those to Raoul and Germaine, was a disjointed stream of angry accusations, blaming her aunt for not allowing her the freedom to escape from marriage and choose her own way of life; and making her suicidal intentions perfectly plain. “My lost friend Camille has a weapon which is the only remedy for such ills as mine; if she will accompany me, we will journey to the Elysian fields together; in any case I intend to take with me my wretched child, who shall never be made to endure the miseries that I have suffered.”

  Ellen, reading these lines (which had been released by the police and were printed in Paris-Soir), could not help reflecting that to some people the miseries endured by Louise might seem like the height of comfort—but it is impossible to assess other people’s feelings, she thought, next moment, more justly; Louise did suffer, there could be no doubt of that.

  She was appalled by the appearance of Raoul after his return from police custody. Chancing to look from the window in the schoolroom—where she was packing up Menispe’s toys to be sent to an orphanage—she saw him standing in his garden, outside the little pavilion where he had quarreled with Louise. His shoulders were stooped, his head sunk, he looked like a person who has received such severe punishment that his mind has collapsed. His expression was lost, bewildered, anguished. In three days he had aged twelve years; his cheeks were hollow, his brow furrowed, over his black hair lay a broad stripe of dusty gray.

  Aghast, Ellen stepped back from the window, feeling it had been an infringement of his privacy even to witness such desolation. She did not see him again that day; he had gone to the library, Princess Tanofski reported, and shut himself up there.

  “I think it best you do not attend the funeral, Mademoiselle Paget,” that lady added tartly. “Your presence might cause further unpleasant comment and speculation; there are bound to be representatives from all those disgusting newspapers. You may employ the time in packing up your possessions; I understand that your godmother will return here for the collation after the ceremony, and she is then prepared to carry you back with her to the Britannic Embassy.”

  Ellen concurred, but with a sore heart. She had not relished the prospect of the funeral, where no doubt she would be exposed to cold or malicious scrutiny from all the members of the de la Ferté family; but she had felt it to be the last, least thing she could do for Menispe and Louise. She had no intention, however, of intruding where she was not wanted.

  Her packing did not take long. As she folded garments, sorted books, and laid sheets of music together, she was reminded of her departure from Brussels. I always seem to leave in disgrace, she thought dejectedly. But at least when I quitted Madame Bosschère’s Pensionnat, I had a destination ahead of me; I was traveling to a place where I was wanted and needed. Where am I going now? What lies ahead of me?

  The clock of St. Etienne chimed eleven. This was the time at which the funeral service was scheduled to commence, and Ellen had resolved to spend the next hour in prayer and meditation; but Gaston the footman knocked and entered to tell her, respectfully, that a lady had called and wished to speak to her.

  “Not Mademoiselle de Rhetorée?” asked Ellen in astonishment.

  “Oh, no, mademoiselle; an English miladi.” And Gaston proffered a card on a salver. Hardly able to believe her eyes, Ellen read: Mrs. Samuel Bracegirdle, Maple Grove, Burley, Stoke-on-Trent.

  “Good gracious! Of course I will see her, Gaston. Where is she? The lady is my sister.”

  * * *

  The reunion between the two sisters began in a burst of affection. They had not much in common, but Kitty, shallow, lively, and pretty, had always been carelessly kind to the little Ellen, seven years younger, and felt sincerely sorry for her now. While Ellen, lonely and wretched, was spontaneously delighted to see a representative of her own family.

  “Kitty! I am so rejoiced to see you! Is Mr. Bracegirdle here too? What on earth are you doing in Paris?”

  “Good gracious, child! Your looks have improved out of all measure! I would not have believed it possible! And your dress! That dark color don’t suit you—however, mourning, of course, it can’t be helped—still, that line is far and away smarter than anything I saw while passing through London. How much was that rep a yard, pray tell me? And the needlepoint? Did you buy it ready-made, or have it made up? The piping is beyond anything! Ah, if only I could take you back with me to Maple Grove—”

  “But, Kitty, do tell me how you come to be here? Is your husband in Paris on business? I thought he never traveled? Are you staying with Lady Morningquest?”

  “That old meddler? I should say not! If she had not thrust in her oar, you would still be earning an honest living in Brussels. No, I passed the night at an hotel—B. will have a fit when he hears what it cost—no matter. How do I come to be here? Why, to take you home, of course, silly child! You must not pass another night under this roof.”

  “No,” said Ellen mechanically, “I did not intend to. My things are all packed. I was waiting—”

  Kitty interrupted. “Your things are packed? Why, that’s capital. Here—you—” She turned and addressed Gaston in French which, considering the years she had spent in Brussels, was hardly a credit to her. “Have my sister’s boxes taken down to my carriage.”

  “Très bien, madame.”

  “But, Kitty—how can I? I am supposed to go to my godmother—”

  “Psha! Where’s the sense in that? She don’t want you, I’ll be bound; and the sooner you are away from here, the better. Indite a note to Paulina Morningquest�
��the servants can give it to her—and let’s be off.”

  Kitty had put on weight since her marriage. At twenty, round-faced, rosy-cheeked, with curly dark hair, she had been a lively, bonny girl. Now solidly built, high-colored, clad in matronly fringes and velvets, she had become a presence of some authority. Despite this, Ellen resisted a moment longer; but then she thought: After all, why should I not go with Kitty? It’s true, Lady Morningquest will be glad to be rid of me. She only takes me in from a sense of duty; I shall be a horrible reminder of her failure to avert the tragedy—she will scold me all the time I stay with her. And Raoul? I should not have seen him again in any case. In a week’s time he will have forgotten my existence and that will be best for him. Should I write him a note? No, that would be neither prudent nor proper.

  Again, she had a sense of events repeating themselves.

  She did pause to say good-bye to the Abbé de Grandville, who, stricken by violent gout, had not been able to attend the funeral service, but was reading his breviary in the library.

  “I am leaving now with my sister, Monsieur l’Abbé—so I will bid you farewell.”

  He greeted this news with gloomy approval and surprised her by saying, “I shall miss you, mademoiselle. But doubtless it is for the best. And so you return to England?”

  “I—I really am not sure,” said Ellen. The whole thing had happened so fast that she had not paused to consider whither Kitty was whisking her.

  “M. Grandville, will you—will you please give my—my best salutations to the Comte, your nephew, and say that I hope—I hope time will bring him solace and a new happiness.”

  “Thank you, mademoiselle. I will do so.” The pouched, weary old eyes briefly surveyed her, he gave a slight nod, then returned to his murmured orisons.

  Ellen left her note for Lady Morningquest with Gaston, and went out to the carriage, where she heard Kitty tell the driver to go straight to the Gare du Nord.

  “But, Kitty! You intend quitting Paris so soon?”

  “Of course. I only had leave from B. to stay one night—or as long as it took to extricate you from those Frogs. Benedict will be waiting for us at the station. He undertook to reserve a compartment.”

  “Benedict? Did Benedict accompany you?”

  “Certainly he did; since nothing would persuade Mr. B. to cross the Channel. Benedict has, I must say, been of the greatest possible assistance. We have much to thank him for.”

  “I might have known it,” muttered Ellen. “Tell me, Kitty: what made you so determined to come and rescue me?”

  “Why, child—we could hardly stand by and leave you in such a scandalous situation; there were even stories about it all in the English newspapers. Mr. B. was quite disgusted that such things were being said about somebody connected with his family.”

  “So he gave you leave to come and fetch me?” suggested Ellen with curling lip.

  “Yes; but only after Benedict had agreed to escort me. It has all fallen out quite conveniently,” said Kitty, digging in her reticule for coins to pay the driver, “because, of course, it is your duty to come home in any case, and prevent Pa from marrying that odious woman; but I could see that so long as you were snug in a fine situation, you would be hard to drag away from Paris. But now you have got to shift, so it is really just as well that silly Louise Throstlewick made an end of herself; I remember her well; she was at Madame’s for three terms when I was there—a haughty, peevish creature who would speak to nobody.”

  To this, Ellen had nothing to say.

  Ten

  The journey back to England was long, tedious, and remarkable only for a violent quarrel which took place on deck between Ellen and Benedict Masham; Kitty, who was a wretched sailor, having retired below to the ladies’ cabin with her smelling salts and her maid.

  “I would be greatly obliged, Mr. Masham, if you could see your way to desist from meddling in my private affairs!”

  “Your affairs, my dear Ellen, are hardly private when they are reported in The Times and the Morning Post.”

  Ellen could have slapped him. She felt—with fury, with despair—that she was being treated like a naughty child, snatched away from misdoing, scolded, given no right to exercise her own will or choose her own course. She, who had been earning her own living for years, while Benedict was still at college! And why, of all people in the world, should Benedict and Kitty assume the right to judge her? Kitty, who had married a disagreeable man twice her age for his money—who lived in a hideous Midlands town, whose husband manufactured nails and talked with a Bradford accent—how dared she venture to lay down rules for other people’s conduct? Let alone Benedict—Ellen stared at him with real hate.

  Having addressed his remark to her in a cool, measured tone, he was leaning on the rail and gazing at the ominously large waves as if there were no more to be said. He looked, as always, trim, composed, and elegant, in gray trousers, dark broadcloth coat, beautifully cut, and fine, soft black ulster; he held his hat in his hand, for the wind hummed menacingly in the shrouds, but his thick corn-colored hair remained annoyingly unruffled; the fashionably jutting beard he had recently grown and his travel-bronzed skin gave him a somewhat buccaneering appearance.

  Whereas Ellen felt herself to be blown about, blowsy and untidy; she had not dressed for a sea voyage; her bonnet threatened every minute to lift off her head, her shawl and skirts tugged and fluttered (and she had much ado to keep the latter from flying up in a most undignified and improper manner—she was glad at least not to be wearing a crinoline, for she noticed that the English ladies still adhering to this fashion were in even worse difficulties); her hair was being whirled over her face, and a huge lump in her throat prevented her from giving Benedict the setdown he deserved. Women had the worst of it in every possible way, she thought resentfully; considered incapable of making sensible decisions for themselves, treated as if they were mentally deficient, and obliged to dress in clothes that curtailed or prevented any active life and left them at a hopeless disadvantage.

  Clutching at the rail to keep her balance, she, too, stared at the humpbacked, slate-colored waves, each with an ominous curdle of foam bristling against the dark sky.

  “Had you not best go below?” inquired Benedict coldly. “It appears likely that we shall run into a severe squall.”

  “Thank you, I would rather remain here.” The deck was, in fact, infinitely preferable to the hot, crowded ladies’ cabin, filled with retching, lamenting figures, all in competition for the horsehair couches. Benedict can get wet mounting guard over me, Ellen thought vindictively, and serve him right.

  However, it soon began to be plain that Benedict’s clothes were better adapted than Ellen’s for keeping out the weather.

  “You will be soaked,” he observed censoriously.

  “It is of no consequence, I don’t regard it.” She tried not to shiver. The weather in Paris had been sultry and she had only a thin muslin dress and cashmere shawl.

  “Where are your other things?”

  “Packed away in the baggage hold, no doubt.”

  Benedict went off, and shortly reappeared with a ladies’ macintosh cape which he had procured from a stewardess.

  “Thank you,” she said with stiff hostility. “That was not necessary.”

  “Don’t be an obstinate little fool. What use will you be to your family if you return home only to succumb to a feverish cold?”

  “Benedict: will you tell me why, just why you and Kitty—and Eugenia, too, I suppose—think you are entitled to drag me from Paris like—like a child—and make me return to a place where I am not wanted, and have no wish to go?”

  He removed his gaze from the heaving sea, set it on her dispassionately, and replied, “My dear Ellen. We are not dragging you from Paris—as you put it. You are a free agent. Come, consider! You are highly educated, and reputed to have superior sense—do not, I beg, behave l
ike a ten-year-old. You must be aware that your situation in Paris was highly undesirable, and might soon have become notorious. They—we all—wished to prevent you from making a fool of yourself.”

  “Thank you! I would not have done so.”

  He ignored this, and went on in the same measured manner. “Also—a fact which you seem to have overlooked, or choose to ignore—you can be of real use to your sisters at this juncture. Their anxieties about your father are not idle. He is in danger of making a far greater fool of himself; of falling into a wholly unsuitable entanglement, from which it is extremely urgent that he be rescued. I have met this housekeeper—this Mrs. Pike—and can only say that her employment was a most unfortunate piece of bad judgment on the part of my officious aunt Blanche—her excuse must be that it was done in haste, at the time of your father’s accident.”

  “And why should you, Kitty, and Eugenia set yourselves up to be arbiters of my father’s actions?” demanded Ellen hotly. “Perhaps he is truly fond of this Mrs. Pike—how can you know his state of mind? Why should you feel yourselves entitled to meddle in the matter?”

  “Oh, come, my dear Ellie, you are not lacking in sense—don’t pretend to be stupid out of willful obstinacy! You know your father. Like you, he is obstinate as a mule, won’t look a step out of his way, once he is set on a thing—despite the fact that he is learned in the law and a Justice of the Peace. He is selfish, pigheaded, narrow-minded, bigoted, and wholly intent on securing his own comfort, cost what it may. I had ample opportunity to observe this while he was married to my mother.”

  A sharp retort sprang to Ellen’s lips concerning Lady Adelaide, but she suppressed it. Instead she replied in a trembling tone, “Thank you. And I suppose I resemble him?”

  Benedict gave her a glance full of exasperation.