The Girl from Paris

by Joan Aiken

  “And no wonder,” Charlotte went on, pursuing her own way, “no wonder that Madame used to become so nervous and distraught when she observed how the Professor adored you. Which it was plain he did—we all thought he was bound to pop the question, and were laying odds on how soon it would be—”

  “Charlotte! If your mother could hear you! Besides, it is all such nonsense. The Professor liked to talk to me about intellectual matters—that is all.”

  “Well, so it now seems, and lucky for you, too!”

  “Why, pray?”

  “Why, it has come out that the Professor and Madame were married, all the time—had been married for ever so many years—only it was kept a secret for the sake of his fellowship, since married Fellows are not permitted. But only imagine the furore when it did come out!”

  Ellen felt as if she had received a violent physical blow, somewhere between her diaphragm and her collarbone; she gasped, and turned quite white for a moment. Then she said hoarsely, “Married? They were actually married? He and Madame?”

  “Yes! Can you conceive of such a deceit! Naturally, Madame’s credit is quite sunk, and many people have been removing their daughters from the Pensionnat. As you may know, Mama heard a rumor some time since, which was why she brought me to Paris last autumn—”

  “But how did the story get out?”

  “Oh, it seems the Professor had written some learned book, on human thought, or an equally dry as dust subject—”

  “Yes?” Now to Ellen’s sensation of shock was added one of regret at the thought of her lost present.

  “Well, it seems that this book won some great prize, in Belgium, National Medal for Literature, I believe it was called—so there was much public interest in him, of course, and the newspapers published articles about him—and then it all came out about the marriage, which had taken place years ago in a little village in Brabant. But what a thing! When I remember how severe Madame always used to be about la pudeur and la propriété and les convenances—all the time she was conducting such a deception herself. Is it not famous! How Dorothea and I did laugh!”

  “Famous indeed,” said Ellen rather hollowly. “But I cannot help pitying Madame. Her school, that she had taken such pains to build up! And the Professor, too—did the disclosure do him great harm?”

  “Why no—I believe he has since been offered some important government position. Mama said it was unfair that, in such a case, the woman always suffers more from the scandal, while the man’s credit is soon re-established—indeed, Papa, and other men, considered him rather a clever dog to have concealed his marriage for so long! He has had to give up his fellowship, of course, but then the government post will compensate for that.”

  “Well, I never was more astonished,” said Ellen, lamely and inadequately. She felt immense relief that she had written a brief, cordial note of thanks to the Professor immediately upon receipt of his book; it would have been almost impossible to write at this juncture, withholding mention of the book’s destruction at the hands of her father, and her knowledge of this extraordinary revelation.

  Now uncountable memories began to come back—of conversations held with the Professor in classrooms or garden—of Madame’s vigilant eye always upon him, always seeking him out; then, Ellen had imagined that her watchfulness was on grounds of chaperonage, or convention; now, she realized it had had a more personal motivation. Poor woman—what a desperate strain her life must have concealed, when she saw her husband courted by other women—as he had been, continually; his favors had been greatly sought by the teachers at the Pensionnat—while his own wife must hide any proprietary airs or signs of jealousy.

  “Remember your situation—remember your promises!” Ellen remembered her beseeching him on that last evening in the rue St. Pierre. But even then she had not betrayed him—she had kept the secret.

  “Poor Madame!” Ellen exclaimed involuntarily. “How she must have suffered! And now it seems hard that she should receive a greater share of the blame.”

  “Oh well,” Charlotte said cheerfully, “Mama thinks that, by and by, the Belgian bourgeoises will commence sending their daughters to her school again; for it is true she was an excellent teacher. But the foreign community have quite withdrawn their patronage—they do not like to feel they have been duped.” The town clock distantly struck four. “Good heavens, Benedict! Cousin George Leconfield will be sitting down to dinner before I can get out of my habit and into evening dress. They keep such rustic hours at Petworth House. We must fly! Good-bye, dearest Miss Paget. Cousin George says that he and your papa ain’t on good terms,” Charlotte went on ingenuously, “so I can’t very well invite you up to the house, but may I come and call on you, so that we can have a comfortable gossip? I have such things to tell you about Paris beaux! And Benedict will show me the way, I daresay.”

  “Of course you may come,” said Ellen, though in fact she did not welcome the prospect of the visit, particularly if Benedict were to accompany Charlotte. He had been sedulously keeping his eyes off Ellen as much as he could; but if his gaze did chance to rest on her, it almost burned her with its cold, rejecting disdain.

  “Addio, then! Till tomorrow. Come, Benedict, we must make haste.” Charlotte gave her handsome mount a sharp tap and cantered away; Benedict briefly raised his hat to Ellen and followed.

  Ellen made her way home at a slower pace; she was afflicted with tumultuous feelings. Chief among these at first was a considerable indignation against Professor Bosschère; he must, surely, have known the warmth of attachment that he might be exciting in the young teacher by his continued interest and attention; yet he had dropped not the slightest hint that there could be no future, no outcome, no chance of reciprocity for such an attachment. Or had he, perhaps, had aims of his own in view? Ellen’s cheeks suddenly burned as she recalled his saying, “You must be free!” What had he meant? Free for what purpose?

  Suddenly she found that she did not wish to think about Professor Bosschère.

  And to have all this so artlessly revealed by Charlotte in front of Benedict—could anything in the world be more unfortunate? Benedict’s notion of her was low enough already (not, of course, that Ellen cared a rap for his opinion); but, from Charlotte, he had now doubtless received the impression that Ellen’s favors were bestowed promiscuously and uncritically upon whatever male happened to be at hand. Bother Charlotte! Why did she have to come and visit Petworth House just now? And why did Benedict have to escort her? Was Lady Morningquest intending to make up a match between them? Charlotte would not, Ellen thought, suit Benedict at all; good-natured but shallow-pated, she would soon bore him to death with her artless frivolity and prattle. Though, to be sure, it was no concern of Ellen’s—let them marry if they chose! She very much hoped they would not be making a prolonged sojourn at Petworth House; it was annoying and embarrassing, too, that Papa had quarreled with Lord Leconfield about the siting of the new Infant School to be built beside the County Jail; Papa had said that was a most idiotic position for it, and there had been a consequent coolness between the two men, who avoided one another’s company except for the inevitable fortnightly Petty Sessions in the Town Hall. Benedict would be confirmed in his view that the Pagets were a froward, contentious, ill-bred tribe, from whom it would be best to sever all connection…

  * * *

  Next morning, however, to Ellen’s surprise, Benedict did present himself at the Hermitage, along with Charlotte. He looked and spoke coldly to Ellen; he paid a short formal visit on Mr. Paget, and expressed himself happy to see that his stepfather was making progress toward restored health; the chief object of his visit seemed to be that of satisfying himself as to Vicky’s comfort and happiness. Ellen could not help thinking this highly officious—why should Vicky not be happy and well cared for? But then she was obliged to recall how far from happy Vicky had been under the single and despotic rule of Mrs. Pike, which, by a mixture of diplomacy,
defiance, cunning, and care, Ellen had by degrees managed to alleviate in almost every particular; the child was now a changed creature indeed. And it must be admitted, too, that she seemed exceedingly fond of her grown-up half brother; she rushed to him with cries of jubilation, showed him all her drawings, and exclaimed in rapture over the gifts he had brought her. Ellen would have been a little more in charity with Benedict by the end of the call if he had not made it so abundantly clear that the purpose of his visit was not to see her.

  “Where is Gerard?” he inquired. “Not up at Cambridge, surely?”

  “No, not until next year.” And Ellen explained about the visit to Chichester.

  “Oh, then I shall very likely see him. I am going over to dine tonight with Aunt Blanche.”

  Just as Benedict was taking his leave, to Ellen’s great chagrin Mr. Wheelbird was announced—news which Benedict received with curling lip. Avoiding his satirical eye, Ellen said to Sue, “Tell Mr. Wheelbird that I am engaged with Miss Charlotte and cannot see him at present.”

  “Oh, ’tisn’t you, miss, he wishes to see, but Mrs. Pike.”

  “In that case Charlotte and I will remove ourselves to my bedroom,” said Ellen. “Good-bye, Mr. Masham. Please give my remembrances to Lady Blanche and the Bishop.”

  “Good day, Miss Paget.”

  “Why can the lawyer wish to see your housekeeper?” demanded Charlotte inquisitively when the two girls were ensconced in Ellen’s room.

  “Oh, he manages some little business affairs for her. But tell me, Charlotte, is your brother Tom quite recovered from his fall?”

  “Oh Lord, yes, any time these eighteen months. But listen, Ellen—I may call you Ellen now, may I not?” What Charlotte really wanted to relate was the tale of her Paris conquests, a lengthy, breathless, and somewhat tedious recital, made painful to Ellen by sudden violent homesickness which the narrative aroused in her for the sights and sounds and society of that lovely city. To think that it was already a year since she had returned from France! How could she bear it?

  “I will say, Ellen, that you do not look at all dowdy,” Charlotte broke off to remark in a tone of commendation mixed with mild surprise. “That gown is still well ahead of English styles; how do you contrive it, buried away here?”

  “Dear Mrs. Clarke, with whom I maintain a correspondence, sometimes sends me fashion plates, from which, with the help of a local dressmaker, I manage to keep up with the modes. Of course, I am thought something of a freak here! But it does not signify since Papa does not mix with society. And I cannot admire the bulbous English crinolines. I would rather feel elegant than worry about public opinion.”

  “Take care that you do not become an eccentric or a bluestocking!” Charlotte warned seriously, looking remarkably like her mother. “You cannot afford to flout public opinion too far. Remember poor Louise, and Germaine. Oh, by the bye, that reminds me—Germaine de Rhetorée has returned to Paris.”

  “She has? She has emerged from her convent?”

  “She found that the conventual regime did not suit her. Or she it! Also her latest romance, Les Bichettes, had a great success (Mama would not let me read it), so she has been enabled to pay off her debt to the moneylender, and lives quite in style.”

  “Dear me! I had thought her entirely fixed on the religious life.”

  No wonder, Ellen thought rather hollowly, that Germaine had never troubled to write and thank her for the offer of help in the future. She told herself sternly that she ought to be glad of Germaine’s success; could she be so mean-minded as to envy the other girl?

  “Mama says she would not be at all surprised if, in the end, Germaine and Raoul de la Ferté were to make a match of it.”

  “What?” This did seem to Ellen in the highest degree improbable, remembering Germaine’s strictures on the whole tribe of men.

  “No, they are meeting continually. Raoul, it appears, suffers terrible remorse over his wife’s uncompleted historical treatise, and Germaine is advising him as to its possible completion and publication. Oh, it is such dreary stuff! Raoul showed some chapters to Mama. I do not think that will be a success! But Mama thinks well of the match—Germaine is of good family, after all, and Raoul must marry again—mercy, look at the time! I am continually earning scolds from cousin George. I must go—and I have not even told you about the Vicomte de Marigny! He is such a swell. But I daresay, in the end, I shall marry Benedict Masham. Mama wishes it; he is very dull, but Papa intends him for his First Attaché and thinks Benedict could well be the next Ambassador, after Papa retires; so that would be quite convenient. Getting married is such a bore—I much prefer going to balls and having beaux! Good-bye, dear Ellen, pray try to come to town for my ball.”

  And Charlotte floated away, leaving Ellen to ponder on the vanity of human wishes; she had longed for visitors from the outside, for news from her lost Paris life—and look at the discomposure it brought her when it did come!

  * * *

  Gerard and his friend Matt were talking about happiness.

  “I’m so content when I’m with you, Matt,” said the boy. “It feels right. Why, if a thing feels right, may one not have it all the time? Why should my father be so angry and set against it? Surely we ourselves must know what is best for us?”

  The shepherd, without immediately answering, looked up at the sky, where gray and plum-colored clouds were massed, promising a stormy night. Last gleams from the dying sun threw an unearthly luminosity over the hillside and the quarry where Bilbo had his hut; the lumps of chalk scattered about the ground looked like jewels of congealed light, and the ash saplings and bramble growth masking the entrance to the quarry seemed carved from glittering jade.

  “Do you believe in the Almighty, Gerald?” said the man at last.

  “Of course I do! But not all that rigmarole they tell you in church. Why do you ask?”

  “Ah! When I look about, and see how turble pretty His creation do be, and all of it so foreign to our notions—”

  “How do you mean, Matt?”

  “Look at that service tree. See that pethwine.” He pointed to the brilliantly illuminated screen of ash and honeysuckle.

  “Well?”

  “They wasn’t made for us. Look at they thunder pillars in the sky. What do we know of they? Our part in all that be no more than a fingernail on His hand.”

  “So?”

  “So why should us reckon to be happy? In my recollects, there beant no promise in the Scripture about that. ‘Happy is the man that findeth wisdom,’ it do say in Proverbs. Not ‘Wise be he that findeth happiness!’”

  “But folk are happy—” Gerard began to protest.

  “Maybe! But ’tis be rereness, not by right. ’Tis a glimpse o’ heaven gate, no more. Providence dunna lay for man to be happy—but for to learn. Happiness do come in t’other land, not this-ere one.”

  “You seem happy enough, Matt?”

  “Ah! But I had my contrairy times.”

  “Yes. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that,” the boy muttered awkwardly, remembering those long years of prison.

  “Now an’ agen, too, I fare to grieve over a middling good friend I had, back in the lockup.”

  “Who was that?” inquired Gerard, curious, and not a little jealous.

  “Ah. You’d not think much to him, I reckon. He were a poor, hampery, ardle-headed fellow. Drink had been his ruination. How he’ll be a-faring without me I dunna like to think. But yet I’d be lief to see him, poor Sim.”

  “Will you not see him, sometime?”

  The shepherd shook his head.

  “He were down for a lamentable long stick o’ time; robbed a church box, he had, when he were confused in liquor; Justices be main hard on that. He ’on’t be free this side o’ Puck Sunday. But, as to happiness,” Matt went on musingly.

  They heard a dry stick crack, and cautious slow foo
tsteps among the bushes. Matt’s head went up alertly. Gerard scrambled to his feet looking anxious.

  “Who be there?” called Bilbo.

  “I be seeking for shepherd Bilbo,” answered a man’s hoarse voice.

  “Well! Here I be!”

  A skinny figure came limping wearily between the bushes. Gerard thought he had never seen anybody quite so dusty, derelict, and battered-looking. The man was bleeding from cuts about the head, and had a bundle of dirty rags wrapped round one foot. He was thin as a scarecrow and trembling with fatigue and apprehension; his appearance infused the boy with a deep, troubling pang of pity, such as he had never yet felt. What could have happened to the poor wretch, to put him in such a state? And yet the face on top of this deplorable body was that of a clown—rueful, twisted, self-mocking, resigned. He gave Matt a lopsided smile.

  “Matt! Man ye do be a welcome sight for a poor waygoer!”

  Matt’s eyes were round with amazement.

  “Sim!” he breathed. “Oh, Sim! I was just a-speaking of ye. This very minute past! Man, ye’ve never broken out of clink?”

  “Ah, but I have,” said Sim. “I couldn’t a-bear it no longer. Treated me so mortacious, they did, after ye went. So I clommed off, time we was put to dyke-digging on a driply day—an’ I wraught clear away.”

  “But what got ye in such a mux? Did they send dogs after ye?”

  “No, that were Sheba’s folk. I went a-looking for ’er, and they lambasted me. She died, poor gal, simmingly. But they’d not give me up to the beaks; that I will say. And I knew, if I could only find ye, Matt, my hurts’d soon be mended.” Slowly as a falling tree he collapsed, and lay on the thymy grass between Matt and Gerard.

  Fourteen

  Next week Ellen informed her father that she intended catching the public coach to Chichester and spending the night with Eugenia. Some considerable time had elapsed since she had last visited old Miss Fothergill; also she intended to purchase new lesson books, paints, and crayons for Vicky. She would return two days later (the coach ran twice a week) unless Eustace could bring her back.