Flowers Stained With Moonlight

by Catherine Shaw

  ‘But you are dreaming of something, nevertheless?’ I looked at her closely, and a memory of something she had said recently came back to me, but I dared not mention it.

  ‘Everybody dreams,’ she said, and rising, she came to look at the clothes piled on my bed. Unhesitatingly she picked out a pretty afternoon dress in a deep grey shade and held it up against herself. ‘Wear this one, it’s lovely.’

  ‘Everything looks lovely on you,’ I said a little enviously, admiring the contrast between the shadowy hues of the dress and her thick fair hair with its golden reflections in the light, the fairness of her slender arm and the delicacy of her wrists as she turned the dress about to examine it. It struck me again, as it has occasionally over the last few years, what a lovely young woman she really is. Why is she still single, I wonder – can it really be due to her position in life? Is her position really inferior to mine? It doesn’t feel so, and yet perhaps it is because of it that she meets few people other than those who come to Mrs Burke-Jones’ house, and those are of a social class which … I thought of Arthur, and wondered if he would consider marrying a girl like Annabel. The thought was unexpectedly painful, but at the same time, it seemed clear to me that he would not hesitate if he loved her. But then, Arthur is in a special situation; he lost his parents young and has neither family nor fortune, so that there is no one who could really object to any idea of marriage he might have. Whereas most of the young men, mathematicians generally, who circulate around Charles in the home where Annabel lives are not likely to be equally free.

  I was staring at her, lost in these thoughts, whilst she turned over my few things and looked amongst her own as well, choosing accessories, when a smart knock came upon the door, and I jumped.

  ‘Yes?’ I said, and almost immediately, the door opened and Charles thrust his friendly head inside.

  ‘Are you girls almost ready?’ he said cheerfully. ‘It’s past three-thirty now; if we’re going to walk you down there, Vanessa, and then visit a museum as we said, we should be leaving fairly soon.’

  ‘In just a few minutes,’ said Annabel, thrusting the dress and shawl into my arms. ‘Here, you should wear this pearl brooch with it, it’s the only one light enough to stand out.’

  Charles’ head disappeared, and I put on the dress and allowed Annabel to arrange my jewellery, hat and wrap in ways that I should not have thought of myself. She did not take any trouble to prepare herself, and indeed there was no need for her to do so; again I was struck by admiration of her fresh, neat looks and natural grace, and prettily flushed cheeks as we emerged from our room and joined Charles in the foyer.

  ‘We really must go,’ she said, looking about. ‘Where is Arthur?’

  ‘He’s not coming,’ said Charles a little too quickly, and then added lamely, ‘What happened is, he suddenly had a good idea, and went rushing off to the Academy to look up a book there; he – he sends his excuses.’

  Annabel’s colour deepened and she looked confused. She glanced at me and said nothing. Charles looked straight ahead, and held the door for us as we stepped out of the hotel into the street. We set off in the direction of the great boulevards where Mrs Clemming resides, and both Annabel and Charles chatted to me quite intensively about the coming visit, so that it took me several minutes to notice – obtuse me – that they never addressed a single word to each other!

  Ah, how foolish I have been, how blind. Oh dear, oh dear, I see now what I did not see before. Annabel’s feelings have become as clear to me as if a radiant light were lit within her very soul.

  But what about Charles? Thinking back over his remarkably frequent presence in the nursery, I wonder if he did not pack Arthur off to the Academy quite on purpose. I recall his words and tone on many occasions, but I cannot read in a man’s mind as I can understand a young woman of my own age – I cannot guess what his feelings are. Oh, I do feel worried for Annabel.

  Something of this was running through my mind already as we walked, but I put all such notions out of my head as soon as we reached the imposing building where Mrs Clemming resides, and taking leave of my companions, I entered alone, climbed the stairs to her door and rang timidly. A muffled murmur of guests reached me through the burnished wood, which was soon opened by a charming creature in black-and-white, who ushered me within and directed me towards the lady of the house, who was receiving in her vast parlour.

  She sat enthroned in a large armchair, surrounded by tables loaded with objets d’art and tea things, and chairs and sofas upon which various ladies and gentlemen were perched, leaning towards her in animated discussion. Clearly I had entered a familiar little society in which friendliness reigned and from which the coldness or pomposity engendered by shyness was banished. Mrs Clemming raised her eyebrows upon seeing an unknown face, and then smiled.

  ‘Ah, you must be Eleanor’s young friend, Vanessa Duncan, is that it?’ she said loudly but kindly. ‘Well, I do hope you’re enjoying your visit to Paris. Staying in a hotel, are you? Well, it’s very kind of you to come and visit an old lady like me.’

  ‘It’s very kind of you to have me,’ I smiled. ‘I don’t know anyone in Paris, except for the friends who are here with me.’

  ‘Well, I hope you won’t desert me as that little chit of a Sylvia did,’ she said with a sniff. ‘She came here just twice, with that tall silent friend of hers, and after that I didn’t see hide nor hair of them for the whole two months they were here. They found other entertainment, so I heard, or Sylvia did, at least.’

  ‘I imagine they must have made a great many friends after a while,’ I said soothingly but secretly most interested.

  ‘Indeed—’ and Mrs Clemming glanced at the guests around her, who, interrupted in the conversation they had been having, were leaning forward and listening to ours with avid curiosity.

  ‘Shocking, the way she went about alone, or worse than alone,’ sniffed one British lady pointedly. ‘My sister-in-law Victoire – my husband’s sister, that is – and her husband saw her in the casino in Deauville with some gentleman, gambling and dancing until three o’clock in the morning!’

  ‘My goodness, how fast,’ I laughed. ‘But she wasn’t actually alone, was she? I mean, wasn’t she with Camilla?’

  ‘Camilla nothing!’ interrupted Mrs Clemming with disapproval. ‘Those girls have changed since I first met them four years ago at Sylvia’s coming out. She was a dull little thing then, and Camilla was the strong, handsome one. Now here’s Camilla still single, and never saying a word – even when she visited here she was off in the corner talking about fusty history with Gérard the whole time. And Sylvia behaved quite shockingly according to what I heard, and now she’s a widow, and with a scandal, too.’

  ‘A mystery more than a scandal,’ I said, ‘there is no shadow of any scandal associated with Sylvia.’

  ‘Well, then she was better behaved in England than she was here, or took more trouble to cover her traces!’ said the sniffy lady sharply. ‘Out at all hours, Camilla nowhere to be seen – and appearing no better than she should be – dancing with the same gentleman all night, and wearing rouge, too – all in full view of everyone! If she’d done that kind of thing in England, she’d be in far worse trouble than she is now!’

  ‘Perhaps Camilla was there and your sister-in-law didn’t see her,’ I said.

  ‘Certainly not, Victoire asked after her particularly,’ was the reply. ‘Sylvia said that Camilla felt ill at the last moment and stayed in Paris. Do you know what I think, Alice?’ she added thoughtfully. ‘I think Camilla saw the way her friend was behaving, couldn’t stop her, and decided to have no part in it.’

  ‘Who was the man that Sylvia danced with all evening?’ I asked lightly, but my heart thumped queerly. ‘Did your sister-in-law know him?’

  ‘Yes, who was it? Who could it have been, indeed?’ interposed Alice Clemming. ‘How shocking – what can she have been thinking of? You didn’t tell me at the time, Jane, I would have written to her mother at once!’
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br />   ‘Victoire only mentioned it to me a little while ago,’ replied Jane. ‘She was in Deauville recently and it came back to her. I must ask her more about the young man. I believe she said she didn’t know him, but saw Sylvia with him more than once. Disgusting.’

  ‘Now, here you are standing while we talk about Sylvia,’ said Mrs Clemming to me, unfortunately interrupting what I considered a most fascinating conversation. ‘We must get you some tea. Gérard, Gérard, come and take care of Miss Duncan, do,’ she called, turning and beckoning vigorously to an elderly gentleman who had been occupied all by himself in absorbing a pile of small iced cakes on a willow-pattern dish which he held in his hand.

  ‘Oui, oui, ma chérie,’ he said to her indulgently, pattering forward and peering at me through thick spectacles.

  ‘This is Professeur Antugnac,’ she told me, sitting solidly in her armchair and performing the necessary introductory gestures with her arms, while a plate remained balanced on her knee and a teacup on the fragile little table next to her. ‘Miss Duncan from England, Gérard, a friend of Eleanor’s. Like the two other girls who were here in the winter, remember? Find her a cup of something, will you?’

  ‘Miss Duncan, ees it? A pleasure, a pleasure. I give you a cup of tea, yes?’ He pottered cheerfully to the large silver urn and poured me out a cup, while still chattering vaguely. I glanced at the other occupants of the room; the guests were a mixture of English and French, mostly of an age with Mrs Clemming. The Professor appeared to enjoy a privileged position as ‘special friend’, almost even a secondary host to Mrs Clemming.

  ‘You do not know anyone here?’ he asked worriedly, wrinkling his forehead. ‘You have just arrived? You seek friends, yes?’

  ‘Well, one is always delighted to meet new friends,’ I smiled.

  ‘There are no young people here,’ he said, ‘you will find it very boring, perhaps.’

  ‘Why, no, of course not – I don’t talk only to young people, you know! Quite the contrary; if anything, I think older people are much more interesting. They know so much more.’

  ‘Know, know, it is perhaps the only thing which remains,’ he said with a smile which was both sad and enchanting. I felt very fond of him, and as he seemed disposed to accept me into his solitary corner, and Mrs Clemming had returned to the animated conversation she had been having before I arrived, I felt inclined to follow him there. I thought that he was very probably the fusty historian who had so interested Camilla, and decided to sound him out.

  ‘Anyway, it can’t really be true that young people never come here,’ I began. ‘My friends Sylvia and Camilla were here last winter.’

  ‘Ah yes, of course, of course. When the English matrons send their daughters, we receive them, naturally. But they do not stay. We play bridge, here, we talk politics, we talk about society and about the doings of our grown-up children, and they do not like it. Miss Wright, and little Mrs Granger, they came here in my corner also and we talked together. Twice or thrice, but not more often.’

  ‘What did you talk about?’ I asked with eager interest.

  ‘Miss Wright was so very interested in my work,’ he said with a shy smile. ‘I thought perhaps times have changed – the young girls talk to the old professor about his studies, while the elderly ladies chat about parties and clothes and wrong-doing of those around them. It seems backwards from when I was a young man, yes? But perhaps the time, it has not changed, and Miss Wright is an unusual young lady, yes? After I spoke to her, she studied much and the second time she came, she knew a great deal more than the first time, and we spoke most interestingly. She wished to write a book, she told me. She went much to the library.’

  ‘Really,’ I said, a little surprised. ‘I knew she was writing a book, but I thought it was a novel, a love story.’

  ‘Did she tell you so?’ he said, looking at me penetratingly.

  ‘No, not she, Sylvia told me,’ I replied, wondering if it was justified to be so extremely indiscreet.

  ‘Ah, Sylvia told you so. Yes, Sylvia would see it that way, perhaps.’

  ‘What do you mean? What was it she was writing about?’ I asked, my curiosity now seriously piqued.

  ‘I do not know what she was writing, but I know what she was studying, for it was I who led her to it,’ he said with dreamy satisfaction. ‘Marie-Antoinette, the fairy princess of France, the murdered child-queen. I have spent the whole of my professional life studying the fate of aristocrats during the French Revolution, and have published several books on the subject – in French, of course. Miss Wright read my books in the library while she was here, and came to talk to me about them. A very intelligent young lady. She was fascinated by the story and asked me a thousand questions; even her little friend became interested and listened to me as I told them of the uncontrolled luxury of her life as Queen, which led her to mad decisions of buying and spending, and the terrible trials she underwent as a prisoner.’

  ‘I quite understand their being interested,’ I assured him. ‘I am sadly ignorant but the little that I do know is fascinating. I do hope you will not find it boring to repeat to me some of what you told them. What interested them the most?’

  ‘Ah, I remember that Miss Wright asked me again and again about the Princesse de Lamballe,’ he said happily. ‘I have spent much time and effort studying this lovely Italian princess, for many years the closest, most cherished friend of the unhappy Queen. She remains a mysterious personage, of which not much is known, compared to the immense number of facts and details we possess about her more illustrious mistress. Indeed, from all the many letters and writings and testimonies left by those acquainted with Marie-Antoinette, it is possible to penetrate her psychology to some degree, to follow some of her thoughts and feelings, for few people have ever been so completely and entirely observed and described and documented throughout the whole of their lives. Marie-Antoinette was formed by her mother, and when she came to France, her mother sent people to observe and describe her every move, her every word, her every action. And from their letters, a stunningly accurate portrait can be drawn. But her constant companion, the Princesse de Lamballe, remains in shadow. Who was she? And what was the basis of her deep attachment to her Queen, which led directly to her arrest and death? What special role did she play in the Queen’s life, which was the cause of so much violent resentment and so many vulgar rhymes and songs, and which eventually caused the crowd to tear her from the courtroom and murder her on the streets, and promenade her head on a pike about the city?’

  ‘Oh, the Princesse de Lamballe,’ I cried in recognition – ‘I remember now that Sylvia told me about her! She was fascinated by the story – so she learnt of it from you?’

  ‘Certainly,’ he said with modest smugness. ‘I would not, myself, have spoken to them about the details of my historical theory on the importance of the princess in the life of the Queen, but I said something, and Miss Wright listened most intently, and then, the second time she came, she had read a great deal, and asked many profound and pointed questions. Aristocratic life before and during the French Revolution is not an easy topic to discuss, especially in the presence of young ladies, and most particularly those from polite English society, where your Queen Victoria does not allow it.’

  ‘Oh, come,’ I smiled, ‘certainly Queen Victoria is very strict, but I do not believe she actually forbids discussing the French Revolution!’

  ‘But it is difficult to speak of it if one cannot speak of passion and crime and illicit love, which we French know exist but English girls are brought up to believe does not.’

  I laughed, and was about to assure him that English girls were not so goosey as he believed, Queen Victoria notwithstanding, but we were interrupted.

  ‘Now, Gérard,’ called Mrs Clemming suddenly, from the depths of her armchair, ‘you’re not boring the poor girl with Marie-Antoinette, are you? Dear me, the man simply can’t keep off the subject!’

  ‘It is a way of remaining young and fresh,’ he said, patt
ering obediently towards her with a tender little smile. ‘The heart stays young with the contemplation of grace and beauty, and is still capable of love after the passage of decades.’ Unexpectedly, he took her pudgy hand and raised it to his lips with real affection. His eyes twinkled pleasingly, and I became aware that I was witnessing a silent declaration of love for the second time on the same day. It must be the influence of France.

  Alas, I was prevented from learning anything further from the professor by having to join Mrs Clemming and her group, but it was not a total loss, for I made great friends with the lady with the sniff, whose claim to fame is that she is married to an elderly widower with a particle to his name; de la Brière, a minor aristocrat, in fact. This means that she moves simultaneously in two different circles of society; quite an elegant one, in which I fear she cuts but a poor figure as a mediocre specimen of a nationality which is, after all, that of France’s ancient enemy, perfidious Albion, and another, thoroughly British one, in which she is perfectly at home and is furthermore surrounded by a halo of glory due to the aristocratic names she is in the habit of letting fall in the course of the conversation.

  At any rate, perceiving the deep impression made upon me by her mention of barons, counts and so on, she was graciously willing to invite me to her house, and by a miracle (consisting of serving up a great mixture of flattery and admiration) I succeeded in convincing her, in spite of many doubts and hesitations, to promise me to invite also the famous sister-in-law, who is apparently married, not merely to a minor aristocrat, but actually to a major one, the kind with a real title. Her desire to be admired for her high connections (I gather that Mrs Clemming’s little society does not give her sufficient satisfaction on that score, as they are probably quite tired of hearing about it) finally vanquished the hesitations caused by her wish to keep her glorious acquaintances to herself (and also, perhaps, by the difficulties involved in persuading them to pay her a visit. But I must not be unkind).

  She has promised to fix a day as soon as possible. In the meantime, I must go tomorrow to pay a call on Mrs Hardwick of the British Embassy. I consider that today has definitely not been wasted.