Thalia

by Frances Faviell

  The house itself, of the local grey stone, was pretentious indeed. It had once been a simple farmhouse but as the Tréfours had flourished so they had added to it—each one apparently in a more florid style.

  ‘Hideous, isn’t it?’ said Armand, as, rounding the last bend, the full impact of the monstrosity in the pseudo-chateau manner, with turrets, spire and battlements, hit us.

  ‘The only worth-while part of the place is the old original farmhouse—the kitchen, dining-room and one small salon—the rest is rubbish.’ His voice sounded amused but I sensed some bitterness in it too. Was he ashamed of his pretentious home?

  Madame was awaiting us in the grand salon, said a red-faced, fat old woman with several wobbling chins. She was dressed in black with a small lace coif, and like Marie wore a large gold cross round her neck.

  ‘This is Rosalie,’ said Armand, chucking her under one of the chins. ‘My old nurse. Here she is, Nana, my little bride-to-be.’

  The old woman scrutinized me keenly, as Marie did, then took both my hands in hers: ‘Armand’s bride will be welcome indeed.’ Her round child’s eyes took me in from my head to my shoes—which I was suddenly aware were very dusty—then she prodded my breasts, felt my stomach and pinched my thighs.

  ‘She’s small—but the small ones often breed the best stock,’ she chuckled.

  ‘Don’t mind Rosalie, she’s an old fool,’ said Armand hastily, but I didn’t mind at all. The farmers’ wives on Dartmoor also prodded one and regarded all young women as potential breeders.

  ‘We need children here—the place is dead,’ went on the old woman, ‘and this good-for-nothing here despises it. It’s not smart enough for him—he must always be off to the town like they all are now.’

  ‘Rosalie,’ called a sharp voice. ‘Bring them in here and stop gossiping.’ Rosalie made a little bob of apology to me, Armand took my arm and drawing my hand firmly through his and proceeded by Rosalie, we entered the grand salon.

  The impression of this great room was one of soft yellow and grey crowded with black-robed females, but after a deep breath I made out four women and the curé, whose robes had misled me into thinking him a woman—and two men, one of whom I recognized as Armand’s father. A short woman with white hair and of extraordinarily commanding appearance in spite of her lack of height turned from the group at our entrance. She greeted me courteously but formally, with none of Rosalie’s warmth.

  ‘This is Rachel, Madame ma mère.’ Armand remained at my side, his fingers pressing reassuringly on my arm, until his mother drew me away to introduce me to the others in the room. Two of the women were her sisters, the other her sister-in-law.

  I had thought that since having grown slim my former agony of shyness had left me; but to have to stand there under the concentrated scrutiny of these black-clad women was an ordeal which brought waves of humiliating self-consciousness over me. Beyond them the eyes of the men were also focused on me. A burning misery swept me, leaving me shaking and cold as I sensed in their combined attention not only their curiosity but their hostility. The introductions continued as I was led round like a mare on a visit of approval. Armand kept close to me, reassuring me with his amused tolerance. It was sheer relief from the tense silence in the room which made me exclaim joyfully: ‘Ah, here is someone whom I already know!’ when at last Philippe Tréfours greeted me warmly with real welcome in his restless blue eyes.

  ‘Already met? You know my husband, Mademoiselle Rachel?’

  ‘Yes,’ I cried. ‘We met at Mrs. Tracey’s, that’s where Armand and I met too.’ Too late I felt Armand’s sudden warning pinch on my arm and heard his whispered ‘attention’. I looked at him—and then at the group—what was wrong? A strange, almost frightening silence had fallen on the old women—for they all seemed old to me—they had stopped their little buzz of comments on Armand’s English friend and were looking with ill-hidden delight at Suzanne Tréfours, his mother. Her look, sharp and penetrating, moved from her husband to me. ‘So! You met him there. Are you then a friend of Madame Tracey’s?’

  Another warning pinch from Armand almost made me squeal. I was angry—he hurt me—what was all this?

  ‘Yes,’ I said loudly. ‘I like her immensely—enormously—and her daughter too. Clodagh comes to us frequently.’

  ‘Madame Pemberton allows Madame Tracey’s daughter to visit and play with her children?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said uncertainly. I was puzzled now—what could be wrong? I looked from one face to another. Armand’s eyes were anxious but at the same time amused, but Philippe Tréfours was regarding me with the pleading eyes of a spaniel. The curé was gazing out of the windows.

  ‘And you, Mademoiselle Rachel, are you a friend of Madame Tracey’s?’

  ‘I don’t know her very well,’ I said, becoming less and less assured by her steady, unblinking eyes, ‘but I’m painting her portrait. She’s very lovely.’

  ‘Ah! Mademoiselle is a painter?’ interposed the curé, who had swung round from the window, and he immediately began questioning me about my studies. His kind, wise eyes calmed and reassured me. They seemed to be saying: ‘Don’t worry, my child. You’ve just put your foot into something you don’t understand. You’re out of your depth. Leave it alone—don’t try to extricate yourself.’

  Philippe, his brother, and Armand joined us in a lively discussion about art and the respective merits of Epstein and Maillol until the folding glass doors were opened without a sound and Rosalie announced ceremoniously: ‘Mesdames et Messieurs sont servis!’

  I was placed on my host’s right with Armand’s uncle on my left. Armand sat between his two aunts. The curé was on Suzanne Tréfours’ right. I was too nervous and ill at ease after the extraordinary conversation about Catherine to enjoy the meal. It was long and served excellently by two young girls in black. Both had some beautiful lace on their coifs and minute aprons. Rosalie gave serving directions from a small table near the door and she attended to the wines.

  Everything we ate was written as indelibly on my consciousness as if it were one of those violet-inked menus of a Breton hostellerie. Parmentier soup, lobster in coquille with shrimps, and lamb, which had been treated with garlic, in some sharp piquant sauce. Afterwards a great wooden board with a variety of cheeses came in and baskets filled with the local small grapes, pears, and apples. I didn’t exchange one word with Armand but occasionally he gave me a commiserating roll of his eyes. The food just refused to go down—it stuck in my throat as it did when I had quinsy. The table was massively ugly with elaborately carved legs. The great sideboard which was more like a heavy Welsh dresser had some magnificent pewter on it. The walls were of a dark panelled wood and gave a sombre brooding look to the room which the hunting prints could not disperse.

  There was little conversation once the serious business of eating and drinking had begun. Looking round the table it wasn’t very different from the Sunday scenes at my aunt’s—our relatives and the Reverend Cookson-Cander in the place of the curé, but my aunt’s and Cynthia’s eyebrows would have been lifted at the succulent noises of approbation expressed by Uncle Jules, who with napkin tied round his neck gave his opinion on each and every dish and wine. Both Cynthia and my aunt had the British horror of any lapse from what they had decreed as their own code of table manners, which didn’t include opinions on the food and drink. But our hostess seemed pleased and even gratified at her brother-in-law’s expressions of approval. Frequently he would lean across the table and ask me if I didn’t find the menu to my taste—I was eating nothing, he insisted. Rosalie quietly removed the food which I couldn’t eat. The plates weren’t changed so that this was a problem of acute anxiety to me. We rested our knives and forks on a silver rest and the plates were wiped clean with bread. At last it was ended—and we all got up. The men were smoking cigars now and drinking Courvoisier and Armagnac. We all went back to the great salon and Rosalie brought coffee and liqueurs for the ladies. I was given one which was very sweet and sticky and we sat th
ere sipping coffee in a rather awkward silence.

  Philippe Tréfours offered me a cigarette.

  ‘She doesn’t smoke,’ said Armand. One of the young girls brought a box of cigarettes and placed them near me, giving me a soft shy glance. I could tell that all the staff were aware of the importance of the impression I made. I looked round the salon—there were great french windows the whole length of one wall and through them was the sea.

  ‘You’re so near the sea?’ I asked Armand, astonished. ‘We seemed to have been driving inland.’

  ‘This coast curves like a corkscrew—but that’s the sea all right. Come and look at it.’

  I got up and went over to the window with him. My back burned with all those pairs of eyes which followed it. I turned suddenly and they were all watching us.

  ‘Come over here—that is the far bank of the Rance,’ said Armand. ‘Isn’t it beautiful?’ At the same time he drew me into a small recess. ‘You look like a frightened deer,’ he said concernedly. ‘Is it so terrible? Don’t mind them. They’re all old and jealous of us. Kiss me quickly.’

  I kissed him but perfunctorily. He was piqued and tilting my head back he kissed me deliberately. ‘Don’t. Don’t,’ I pleaded—and at that moment a great roar of delighted laughter from Uncle Jules made us spring apart.

  ‘Ha! Ha! The love birds, the turtle doves are busy already . . . bless them,’ he shouted to the group round the coffee table. He was flushed with wine and food, his eyes wickedly alert and alive but his glance so benign that I couldn’t be angry, although I was upset at the gale of laughter his remark provoked.

  ‘Come over here, we see little enough of you . . . your mother wants to speak to Mademoiselle Rachel,’ said Philippe.

  Suzanne Tréfours had the glittering restless eyes of a small lizard. Her husband’s were darting too—but beside hers, his seemed still. There was something reptilian about the heavy lids and the ageless mask of her face. Her hair was white—that beautiful bluish white, not the dirty grey kind—and it was elaborately dressed in a piled mass of curls. Her black dress looked as if it had been sewn on her. ‘Come and sit down,’ she commanded us.

  The chairs in this salon were of gilt cane—as were those in the salon of our villa. Armand sat down on one then shifted to a small bergère. ‘Come here,’ he said. ‘You look unhappy on that gilded horror.’

  ‘How old are you, Mademoiselle Rachel?’

  ‘Eighteen and five months.’

  ‘Only eighteen—then you will need your parents’ consent to an engagement. What do they say?’

  I didn’t think she was the sort of person who would appreciate Father’s telegram so I said Father would be agreeable.

  ‘Your father. What does he do?’

  What did Father do? I didn’t know. He went fishing whenever he could—he made casts of minnows and his own flies. He drew exquisite plans for viaducts and bridges.

  ‘He doesn’t do anything,’ I said.

  ‘He doesn’t work?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He is old then?’

  ‘Not at all,’ I said sharply. ‘He’s much younger than your husband.’

  ‘Then why doesn’t he work?’

  This was too much. ‘I’ve never asked him,’ I said. ‘But if you write to him you could inquire the reason.’

  A sudden look of acute displeasure warned me to be careful. I was already sorry that I had answered so rudely.

  ‘You live in Devonshire, Armand tells me?’

  ‘We live on Dartmoor near the prison,’ I said.

  ‘What prison?’

  ‘The one built for the French prisoners.’

  Armand gave me a sharp nudge. What had I said now? Just in time I remembered that she couldn’t possibly know that Napoleon was my hero. I had been about to explain that the prison had been built for the French prisoners from Canada.

  ‘What are you doing in France? Are you a guest of Madame Pemberton?’

  I explained that I was companion to Thalia and that I helped with Claude.

  ‘So. You are a kind of governess. Madame Pemberton pays you?’

  ‘Pays me? What for?’ I asked.

  ‘Then you are “au pair”, aren’t you?’

  I was getting tired of this inquisition and assented that she could call it that. I saw where it was leading, after several more delicately put questions. She wanted to know that all-important thing—far more important here than at home—had Father any money? Had I?

  Money was a subject seldom mentioned at home except in moments of crisis for the simple reason that we never had any. Father’s tastes in fishing rods and his habit of renting expensive stretches of water to indulge his love of the sport left very little for his large family.

  Nevertheless I knew that I’d have a small income of my own when I came of age. It had been left me by my grandmother.

  ‘Rachel is studying art. She lives with her aunt,’ said Armand, trying to divert his mother from financial paths. He had been fidgeting and shifting during my ordeal.

  ‘Your aunt lives in London?’

  ‘No. She lives about thirty miles out.’

  ‘She is there now?’

  ‘No. She’s in Egypt.’

  ‘What is she doing in Egypt?’

  ‘Looking for the Sphinx,’ I said impatiently.

  ‘But what is it—qu’est-ce que ce Sphinx?’

  ‘It’s one of the wonders of the world,’ interposed the curé, who had been listening intently. ‘One of the miracles made by man.’

  ‘She has gone to Egypt on holiday?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you live with her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She has children?’

  ‘No. Her son died.’

  ‘Has she adopted you?’

  ‘No. My father didn’t wish it.’

  ‘What will she say about this idea of yours and my son’s?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said truthfully. ‘But I don’t think she likes foreigners.’

  ‘In that respect, Mademoiselle Rachel, I resemble her.’

  There was a little smile of satisfaction on her face and the heavy lids were lowered. Once again the curé came to my rescue, by commenting on my fluent French. ‘Where have you learned it?’ he asked me. I explained that we’d had French governesses and that I’d been to a finishing school in Switzerland.

  ‘You speak very well—but you have an accent, of course. I should say your governess was an Alsatian and that your French teachers in Switzerland came from the German-speaking part.’

  ‘They didn’t,’ I retorted. ‘But that I have an accent I can now hear.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake don’t take your accent from these parts—the French here isn’t pure by any means.’ Armand sounded impatient and bored and his mother looked at him just as Cynthia looked at Claude when she wanted to placate him.

  ‘You’ll have to teach Armand English—he’s lazy,’ she said, smiling at me.

  ‘Armand’s very lazy at learning anything except how to charm women,’ said Philippe Tréfours. ‘He’s an expert at that—isn’t he, Mademoiselle Rachel?’

  ‘Perhaps I take my cue from you,’ replied Armand lightly. ‘My father speaks a little English,’ he said to me. And then I remembered that when I had met him at Catherine’s they had been conversing in English. I was about to say so when Philippe said quickly: ‘Take her round the place—it’s a lovely afternoon. No one would think that it was November.’

  Armand wasn’t enthusiastic but we all went out and stood with our feet planted in the soil looking down the long irregular lines of trees through which one glimpsed flashes of the sea—blue, cerulean blue to-day. The soil smelt fetid with dung and the scent of the late apples and tang of the sea came sharply to me. I looked from Philippe to his son—and each of them had something of this strange but savage land in them —Philippe dark, intensely alive and aware of life with the peasant’s shrewdness in that love of its fruits and rewards, and in Armand was
the strange unreal dream-like quality which this whole land possessed.

  And then I thought about the woman who had just been questioning me. Suzanne? What had she? I didn’t know as yet because I didn’t know the land. Only what I had seen. A land has to be lived in to be known; like people it only shows the aspect conveyed by its mood and by one’s own mood. I was so happy standing between these two men that I didn’t want to think about Suzanne Tréfours.

  When, after seeing all the glass-houses and all the complicated system of packing and storing the apples and the despised tomatoes, we had tea made especially in my honour, I bade her good-bye, she said: ‘We will wait a month or so. At Christmas if you are both of the same mind we can discuss the question of an engagement. There are serious things to consider.’

  She looked at me through those heavy lids and smiled. She even kissed me on either cheek now that I was going. But I wasn’t deceived—she didn’t like me. And as for me—I had taken the same violent, unreasonable dislike to her as I had taken to the Reverend Cookson-Cander.

  XI

  THALIA and I returned from the ballet class one afternoon in December to find Cynthia angry and baffled because Mademoiselle Caron had given notice.

  ‘Why?’ I asked.

  ‘That’s what is so absurd. She won’t give any reason. Of course her English is limited—but it’s good enough for me to have understood that she wants to leave. She doesn’t want to return after the Christmas holidays.’

  I knew that Julie Caron found Claude very tiring, but after all she did not have nearly so much of his company as I did. I had thought that I loved all children—as indeed I always had—but this one I just could not love. I thought that perhaps Julie Caron felt the same way and didn’t like to say so.