Thalia

by Frances Faviell

  I was excited at the idea—but reminded her of the failure of the only commission I had attempted.

  ‘I know you’re very young—still studying . . . but I shan’t mind if you make an egg of me as long as it isn’t a disagreeable egg.’ She gurgled again. ‘Will you try?’

  Aunt Phoebe came in. ‘Philippe’s here, Catherine. Can he come up?’

  ‘Of course. Rachel, this is the friend who wants the portrait. His brother, Xavier Tréfours, is a famous painter. You’ve heard of him, haven’t you? Philippe loathes his work. I shall call you Tintoretta. Rachel’s too dull for such a piece of quicksilver. Ah, Philippe!’

  Two men had come into the room. Both were tall for Frenchmen. The elder man was dark, heavily built with unexpectedly blue eyes, the young man fair and slender.

  ‘This is Philippe Tréfours, and this is his rascal of a son, Armand. This child’s name is Rachel, Philippe, but as she’s going to paint my portrait I’m going to call her Tintoretta.’

  Philippe Tréfours took my hand, then bent and kissed Catherine’s. Armand kissed Catherine’s hand.

  The impact of Catherine on me was still so great that I scarcely noticed the two men. She was very much at ease with both of them, and there was a resemblance between them in spite of their different colouring.

  ‘Well, and how do you find our little town?’ Philippe Tréfours asked me. He was sitting very close to Catherine and still held one of her hands. She was regarding him with the delightful teasing air of one who humours a little boy. And there was something of the eternal boy in this great heavy man. The eyes themselves were those of an astonished child —a child delighted at his own luck . . . afraid to believe that that luck will hold. I think I knew instinctively that they were in love—and that she was the sort of woman I would never meet in my aunt’s drawing-room.

  Before I could answer the question about Dinard, Thalia came running in to say that we must go and I saw her eyes narrow as she took in the group round Catherine.

  ‘Armand will run you back to Dinard. Take Clodagh with you.’

  The young man, Armand, escorted me downstairs and outside to his white sports car. I sat next to him, and Thalia behind with Clodagh.

  We didn’t talk at all—the engine was too noisy, but I noticed his beautiful hands on the steering-wheel and the curious pleasure that close proximity to him gave me.

  He dropped us at the gate of the villa, declining to come in, turned the car deftly, if noisily, in the narrow street, and was gone.

  Cynthia was in the salon with Terence Mourne. She was standing by the window looking out at the sea and he was in the only comfortable chair, smoking. When she turned at our entrance she had a lovely rose colour in her face but her eyes were hard and very, very blue. Whenever Cynthia was angry or about to be disagreeable her eyes were of the most wonderful forget-me-not blue.

  ‘Rachel . . . so here you are. It’s late. Claude’s in bed so you needn’t rush up to him.’

  ‘I promised to tell him a story because he had to stay behind.’

  ‘Sit down, please. I have something to say to you.’

  I sat down. Thalia was fidgeting uncomfortably and looking in disgust at Terence Mourne.

  ‘Sit down. Do. Thalia, you’d better hear this too.’

  ‘Rachel. D’you happen to remember the address of old Yves’ sister Marie?’

  ‘No. But it’s somewhere near the station. I can easily ask—their name is Duro.’

  ‘To-morrow morning I want you to go and find her and ask her to come and see me immediately.’

  I looked at Terence. He looked away. Thalia and I exchanged glances. I got up. ‘All right. I’ll go up to Claude now.’

  ‘Wait. There’s something else. Madeleine has gone. Her things will be collected to-morrow. You and Thalia will have to get the evening meal. And see to the breakfast to-morrow.’

  Thalia turned furiously on her mother. ‘Why? Why? Only at lunch to-day you were praising her. What’s she done?’

  ‘That’s enough, Thalia. Madeleine has chosen to go off and leave me of her own accord. Of course I had paid her yesterday. The French were always an ungrateful people. It’s too bad of her after my having taught her English ways.’

  I looked at Terence Mourne smoking nonchalantly. He wouldn’t look at me. I was hurt. Madeleine might have told me she was going. We had been good friends. Or so I had thought. Thalia and I went into the kitchen. ‘What shall we eat?’ I asked helplessly. The larder was strangely bare. Madeleine shopped from day to day.

  ‘Omelette,’ said Thalia, ‘with lots of garlic in it. Mother hates it—it isn’t genteel!’

  We collapsed on the kitchen chairs giggling. ‘What else?’

  ‘The most smelly cheese we can find—I’ll go out and get it now—she hates that too . . . and bitter endive.’

  ‘She’s made the soup,’ I said, lifting the lid from the pot on the stove.

  ‘Oh, joy! Brown onion soup!’ cried Thalia gleefully. ‘Mother hates it. Give me some money, Rachel. I don’t want to go in the salon and breathe the same air as that poodle!’

  I looked at her. The venom in her voice was unmistakable.

  ‘Why d’you call Captain Mourne a poodle?—he’s not at all like one.’

  ‘Not to look at. But he likes ladies’ drawing-rooms.’

  She took the money I handed her and raced off down the path. She was singing ‘Excelsior’ loudly and looking astonishingly happy.

  When I went up to my room after cooking the highly flavoured meal I found a note on my dressing-table. It was written in violet ink on paper which came from the lavatory off the hall.

  CHÈRE MADEMOISELLE RACHEL,

  It is better that I go. Le beau Capitaine Mourne has said that if I don’t he will tell Madame. In any case the fleet comes to St. Malo next week. Dear Mademoiselle Rachel, I like you very much, and for this reason I give you this advice. Do not marry an Englishman. I speak from much experience. May Ste. Thérèse protect you.

  MADELEINE

  Terence Mourne was leaving as I reached the hall.

  ‘Rachel,’ he called. ‘You’re coming to the Casino with me on Saturday. It’s all arranged. I’ll call for you at eight. Wear a pretty dress. It’s a gala night.’

  I ran after him. ‘What did you say to Madeleine?’

  He looked whimsically at me. ‘There was no need to say anything. La belle Madeleine and I understand each other very well.’

  I wanted furiously to tell him that I wouldn’t go with him on Saturday, but there was something so disarming in his smile, so attractive in his amused bantering glance, that my words died away unuttered.

  V

  MARIE DURO presented herself at the back door the next morning. She was dressed in black with a woollen shawl and a small white coif. She had a white frill at her neck and her whole person exuded an aseptic cleanliness which Madeleine had lacked. She was dark, her hair drawn uncompromisingly back from a fine forehead. There was something of the hard granite of the coast in the ruggedness of her face as she stood there with a straight dignity which compelled admiration and respect.

  ‘You are Mademoiselle Rachel? My brother Yves has spoken about you. Don’t believe a word he says—he’s a good for nothing—an ivrogne. . . . Is the Madame in?’

  ‘She’s upstairs in bed. Come in.’

  She entered slowly, looking carefully and suspiciously round the kitchen.

  ‘It’s untidy—I’ve tried to clean it up but there hasn’t been much time,’ I apologized.

  ‘It’ll need a thorough cleaning after that one has been in it,’ was all she answered. We ascended the stairs and I asked Cynthia if I should bring her in.

  ‘Yes—and stay and interpret for us, Rachel. . . .’

  Marie contemplated Cynthia in the bed. Then she said to me: ‘Is she ill?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then why is she in bed?’

  ‘Madame stays in bed until eleven.’

  ‘It’s strange,’ she said. �
�But all Englishwomen without husbands stay in bed a lot, while those with husbands can’t get up fast enough.’

  ‘Are the French so different then?’

  ‘The French women stay in bed with their husbands—those without husbands get up. . . .’

  I translated this for Cynthia, who went very red and didn’t smile.

  ‘Ask her how many households she’s worked in and read me her references. . . .’ was her only comment.

  Marie had a sheaf of letters all testifying to her cooking ability and her cleanliness. Two of them, however, stated that she was inclined to be difficult. I didn’t translate these to Cynthia. I had taken an immediate liking to Marie—and I didn’t want to clean out the kitchen or do the cooking. It took half an hour to settle the wages and conditions. One of Marie’s was that she did all the marketing herself, and that she was free to attend Mass every Sunday and feast day. Finally all was amicably arranged and she departed to arrange her affairs and pack her box, which Yves would bring for her. She would arrive with him in the afternoon.

  ‘She’s pig-headed—like all the Bretons,’ said Cynthia after I had made her some coffee and brought it up to her room. She was sitting at her dressing-table brushing her golden hair, and the sun streamed in on it and caught its brilliant lights as she brushed. Few women had long hair now, but Cynthia’s was so beautiful that I understood her not having cut it.

  ‘I think I’ll go back to bed,’ she said. ‘I’m not feeling too well this morning.’

  She climbed back under the cupids and as I handed her the tray I thought suddenly that she and Catherine Tracey ought to change beds. For Cynthia, in spite of her golden hair, and apple-blossom skin, had an almost Victorian primness, a consciously false modesty which made a mockery of the emblems of love holding the heart above her head. Catherine in the iron bed had pulled me warmly to her and kissed me, I had hugged her unrestrainedly—and yet I had never seen her before that day.

  Cynthia sipped her coffee now, and looked sideways at me. I knew suddenly that Terence had told her about Madeleine, and that she knew that I had known about her. She looked at me with a studied intentness and said meaningly: ‘I don’t want you to become as familiar with Marie as you were with Madeleine.’

  Again it could have been my aunt speaking. So she had spoken when I had gone for two long walks with Janet, her parlourmaid.

  ‘Madeleine’s young,’ I said. ‘With all this interpreting there’s bound to be familiarity—I make mistakes—very funny ones sometimes. Besides—I like her.’

  ‘You’re not the only one who makes mistakes,’ she said with a rueful smile. ‘It seems I made one over her. You should have told me, Rachel. . . .’

  ‘Thalia tumbled to it before I did,’ I said. ‘It’s really very funny!’ And in spite of myself I began laughing helplessly again.

  But Cynthia was angry now.

  ‘It was your duty to tell me immediately you suspected. It’s disgraceful of you.’

  ‘Why?’ I retorted rudely. ‘I’m not accustomed to having to suspect those around me of immorality. Besides, I’ve told you. I like Madeleine.’

  When I used the word immorality she looked searchingly at me as if to try and fathom my meaning. Then, changing the subject, she said: ‘Enough of Madeleine. It’s about Thalia I really want to speak to you. She’s of an extremely jealous nature—and she’s becoming very attached to you.’

  There was resentment in her voice.

  ‘But isn’t that what you wanted? What I’m here for? To help her. She’s lonely—like I am.’

  ‘I’m sorry there are so few young people here for you, Rachel. I can understand that you’re missing the young students at the Slade. In the Christmas holidays it’ll be better. I’m told it’s very gay then. Lots of families have young sons at the universities in England who come over for the vacations. And, anyhow, you’re going out with Terence Mourne on Saturday.’

  ‘He’s old,’ I said resentfully, remembering what the stewardess had said on the boat. ‘And I didn’t mean that sort of loneliness.’

  ‘Old?’ she said sharply. ‘He’s not more than thirty-eight or so. What is this absurd resentment against age?’

  I didn’t know. It was more a resentment that I was young than that he was old, but it was useless to try and explain this to anyone.

  ‘If you’re lonely you’d better work hard at your languages. Mademoiselle Caron wants to exchange French for English conversation with you. It would be good for you both. She could come here one evening and the following week you could go to her.’

  ‘It’s not that kind of loneliness . . .’ I said again. ‘It’s something I can’t explain. Madeleine had it too—and she had plenty of men——’

  ‘Don’t mention Madeleine again. That incident is closed. To come back to Thalia. I ought to warn you, Rachel. Thalia can be unpredictable when she’s jealous. She plays very unpleasant practical jokes. You’ve noticed that? I don’t want it encouraged. I’ve suffered too much from her already.’

  I couldn’t answer her, such a wave of distaste came over me. That she could speak so of her own daughter disgusted me. I excused myself as the bell rang and went downstairs.

  Thalia watched me dress for the Casino. My aunt had given me a pale yellow tulle dress before I came away. It was a mass of billowing frills, and although the effect was pretty enough I didn’t know how to manage the skirt. I sensed that Thalia was annoyed that I was going. It was the first invitation I had received in which she wasn’t included.

  Cynthia, although she and Captain Mourne had made the arrangement themselves, also seemed to resent it. When we were having tea that afternoon she said: ‘It’s a pity you’re going out to-night. I’ve just been asked to Colonel Simpson’s.’

  ‘What short notice!’ I said.

  ‘Someone’s let him down,’ said Thalia slyly.

  ‘Nothing of the sort. He’s getting up an impromptu party.’

  ‘He’s such a bore,’ said Thalia, ‘that I wonder anyone goes!’

  Cynthia reproved her sharply.

  ‘Well, it’s true,’ said Thalia. ‘Father said so. He tells the story of his shooting a rogue elephant every time we see him!’

  ‘I haven’t heard it,’ I said mildly. ‘And I’ve met him here several times.’

  ‘You will,’ said Thalia grimly.

  ‘Do you want me to telephone Captain Mourne and tell him that I can’t come?’ I asked Cynthia.

  ‘No. Of course not. Terence wouldn’t appreciate that at all.’

  ‘Do you know him very well, Cynthia?’ I asked.

  She looked put out by my question, then she said swiftly: ‘I’ve known him for several years now.’

  ‘Since Meerut!’ said Thalia. ‘He came to the Regiment at Meerut. He transferred from another one to ours.’

  When I had put on the dress, some whim made me pile my hair on top of my head with a Spanish comb. Thalia said nothing as she watched me do it. I asked her how it looked.

  ‘All right,’ she said. But Cynthia thought it absurd, and said so.

  ‘It’s too short for that,’ she said. ‘All the ends will come down with the sea breeze, and when you dance you’ll look a sight.’

  I decided not to change the style.

  ‘If he’s left the Army do I call him Mr. or Captain or what?’ I asked Cynthia.

  ‘His name is Terence as you know—but as he’s so old, you’d better address him as you think fit.’

  I looked at her. Was she serious? I decided she was.

  ‘He’s a very good dancer,’ she said. ‘That’s how I first became so fond of dancing. Tom doesn’t dance.’

  I had an evening cloak which my godmother had given me. Cynthia had already borrowed it twice. It was rather nice to wear it myself.

  ‘Are you sure you’re warm enough? It’s cold on the Promenade.’

  I thought that if she didn’t want to be thought old she shouldn’t keep on fussing about rain or cold or wind. Their loveliness and variety make
life interesting. But then she had been living in India where she had become accustomed to warmth.

  ‘Don’t keep her out too late, Terence,’ she said as we left. She looked rather forlorn and wistful as she watched us get into a taxi.

  ‘Why didn’t you invite her too?’ I asked, but he didn’t answer me. In a dinner jacket, with the hair I didn’t admire darkened with some kind of brilliantine, he looked very distinguished, but the hairs on the back of his hands were just as red as before. He looked like a very handsome fox. I am very fond of foxes—but only as animals.

  The Grand Casino is right on the Promenade of the Plage de l’Ecluse, with its huge windows looking on to the sea. We had dinner in between the dancing; a space had been cleared on the floor and the great room was crowded. Among the faces which I had encountered constantly in the streets were only one or two which I knew. Cynthia had invited me to accompany her to cocktail parties on several occasions but I had stayed with Thalia. She knew I didn’t play bridge, and except for a reception at the British Consul’s to which we had all gone, I hadn’t as yet been anywhere. As soon as Terence and I entered I saw heads turning and asides being exchanged at the tables nearest us, and Terence had to pause several times on our way to a table, to introduce me to people. They were all inquiring after his health. He knew everyone, it seemed, and was in great demand.

  ‘I spent last winter here,’ he explained to me. ‘I went to London for a couple of months while this place was crowded for the season. I was coming back when we met on the boat.’

  Cynthia was right when she had said that he was a good dancer. He was a skilled partner, and accustomed as I was to indifferent performers among the students at the Slade, to dance with someone like Terence was a pleasure I hadn’t experienced. We danced without talking much for the sheer enjoyment of perfect timing and perfect partnership. He complimented me on my dancing as we sat down.

  ‘Why d’you really live here?’ I asked him later, when we were drinking some very light white wine.

  ‘For the reason I told you. It’s cheap, and I can get more out of life here than I could for the same money at home—besides, I play.’