The du Mauriers, page 16
Soupe à la bonne femme and fromage de Brie, and perhaps, if it were the right season, fraises de Bois, Kicky’s favourite dish (poor Gyggy was not asked for his); and, when they had finished, Louis-Mathurin would break into song and delight them all, even old Charlotte who waited at table, while little Isabella was sent to the piano to perform to her brothers. She really played quite excellently for a child of ten. Sometimes Aunt Louise came over from Versailles, if her rheumatics permitted, and she would get Gyggy in a corner and ask him when he was to make his première communion. Surely it was time? Would Monsieur Froussard arrange it, or should she come to see him at the pension?
Gyggy would pull the necessary solemn face, and said he hoped it would be soon, and perhaps his dear god-papa would send him a present from Portugal?
Louise thought this not unlikely, but warned her nephew that, if he did, the present would presumably be a book of a religious nature; at which he looked so disappointed that she pressed three francs into his hand when his mother’s back was turned. The visits of Louise very often clashed with those of George Clarke, who had returned from India; and, while the boys admired his boots and his curling moustache—for he was still very handsome, although he was well over fifty—Louise found pleasure in his voice and his manners, and most especially in the little air of gallantry with which he addressed her.
He had left the Army, promotion being unlikely, and now talked of settling down, whether in England or France he could not make up his mind. His mother seemed content in Boulogne, and until her death, at any rate, he would make his home with her. Louise felt sorry for him: he seemed lonely, at a loose end, and she thought how terrible it must be for him to be obliged to live with that dreadful Mrs Clarke, whose tongue, by all accounts, was more pungent than ever. She had brought out her memoirs after all, but they had been translated into French and published in Paris, which was the only way she could safeguard the annuity. A most scandalous book. Louise had peeped into it. Ellen had never mentioned it at all. There must have grown a coolness between her and her mother, thought her sister-in-law; and a very good thing too. She did not like to think that the dear children had such tainted blood in them. It was most unpleasant. Captain Clarke was very unlike his mother. So polished and courteous.
He seemed to be paying Louise a considerable amount of attention. He asked her opinion on all sorts of subjects; what she thought of the English countryside and the English people, whether she were fond of children, and (rather tactlessly, but quite unintentionally so) whether she considered the best time for men and women to marry was the early thirties.
Ellen was delighted that her brother had taken such a fancy to Louise. It brought her out of herself, and she was inclined to become too convent-minded at Versailles. To hear her chatting, quite unconcerned, of marriage, and young people, and the affairs of the day, was a welcome change after the rather narrow tittle-tattle of the convent. She was still very charming-looking, after all, even if her pretty fair hair had disappeared in Portugal—something to do with the climate—and she was quite bald under the grey wig; but her gentle expression was unchanged, and so were her mild blue eyes. If little Isabella was as pretty as that when she was past fifty she would do very well.
Now she came to consider it, mused Ellen, stitching laboriously at one of Kicky’s shirts, Louise and George were much of an age for one another. George was the elder, perhaps by a year or so. Nothing could be more suitable. They would settle down together exceedingly well. The union would make up to Louise for all she had lost twenty years before. And George had always been the sober, steadying sort, hating nonsense of any kind. There would be nothing romantic in such a marriage, naturally; but, then, one did not expect romance when one was past fifty. One needed companionship, and a comfortable home. It was only superficial people, like their poor silly mother, who needed this constant excitement and amusement until they were over seventy.
Ellen stabbed severely at her shirt; her brows contracted. Even if things were very uncertain here in Paris, she thanked goodness she was no longer in Boulogne. What an influence for the boys and Isabella… and that dreadful book!
She glanced up and saw that Kicky was drawing a caricature of his Aunt Louise.
She coughed loudly, and frowned, putting on her ‘pained’ expression that worked magic with him always, and the boy pushed away his paper at once, flushing scarlet, and reached for his devoir des vacances.
‘If that is how you employ your time at school, your papa and I might have saved our money,’ she said, in a low tone. Kicky said nothing; he buried his head deeper in his book. How terrible if mamma showed the drawing to Aunt Louise, and she realised how life-like was the curled wig. He had not meant to be unkind. And she would think he was laughing at her, and would return to the convent at Versailles and sit thinking about it in her uncomfortable little room filled with crucifixes, dominated by that distressing oil-painting of Jesus Christ pointing to His bleeding heart.
He passed the remainder of the evening in agony, worrying about the possibility. His mother had forgotten the drawing already, however, and was thinking what a pretty bridesmaid Isabella would make.
She knew her sister-in-law so well by now that it was not the slightest embarrassment to question her on the subject, when George had returned to Boulogne. ‘Has it struck you, Louise,’ she began, in her blunt, straightforward way, ‘that George is paying you a considerable amount of attention?’
Louise coloured ever so slightly, and hesitated before replying.
‘He has certainly been very courteous,’ she admitted, ‘but I put that down to good breeding and good manners. There is something about a man who has been in the Army… I remember, one of the Palmella cousins was just the same. His attentions were most marked one summer at Lisbon.’
‘Oh, but George has never been one of these deliberate compliment-paying gallants,’ said his sister. ‘He is much too genuine for that. To tell you the truth, I have scarcely heard him mention a woman’s name. No, I thought it a little odd that he questioned you so closely on marriage. Of course, he knows your sad misfortune in the old days; I know he was not trying to draw you on that subject. It looked to me as though he was making some allusion to the future. Did he commit himself in any way?’
‘He remarked that it was not until a man reached years of discretion, as he had, that he could know his own mind. He said something about fifty-five being the prime of life.’
‘Did he really? I should call that very suggestive.’
‘He told me he felt lonely very often, now that he had left the regiment, and he knew so many of his old friends who had married and settled down that sometimes he had a yearning to the same. People of our age, he told me, need sympathy and love, and did I not agree, and was I not lonely at the convent?’
‘My dear Louise, that practically amounts to a proposal!’
‘Oh, Ellen, do you think so?’
‘I consider it significant, at all events.’
‘You put me in quite a flutter. Really, I have never considered such a change at my time of life, with my rheumatism, and one thing and another…. Why, Ellen, I hardly think I could accept.’
‘Nonsense, Louise. It would be just the thing for you. I am not too fond of that convent, I don’t mind telling you. And George is so tactful and thoughtful, I am sure he would not presume upon you in any way, just because you were his wife. He would make every allowance for your health and tastes.’
‘Oh, as to that, I am sure I am quite as capable of fulfilling the duties of a wife as anybody else. We were all born, you know, when my father was over fifty. Not that I compare myself to him, of course. I am not suggesting that I could have any children. But still…’
‘No, naturally. I understand perfectly to what you are alluding. I feel certain George would be most considerate in every way. Depend upon it, he has gone back to Boulogne to come to a decision. He is a slow thinker, he always has been—very unlike my poor mother—and it may be some time before he makes up his mind. You must not become impatient.’
‘I am hardly likely to do that. After all, I should need no preparation. I’m not like a young girl, who must have a trousseau. All my things are in good order. A night-gown or two, perhaps. However, there is time enough.’
‘So you are determined to accept him?’
‘Why, Ellen, since you yourself seem so much in favour of it, I hardly know what argument to bring against it. I have a great regard for your brother, and I believe I could make him happy. I think, even, that it would be selfish of me to refuse him. It would be unnatural on my part.’
‘That is what I feel. Well, Louise, no need to tell you how happy it would make all of us. I will say nothing to Louis until George tells him himself.’
The months went by, however, without the gallant Captain coming to his great decision, and it looked as though his thinking-powers worked more slowly than his sister had supposed. Or perhaps he considered that Louise had not given him enough encouragement. At any rate, he came to Paris for the New Year of 1851, and went again without as much as a hint regarding marriage. He was as courteous as ever—in fact, most studiously polite—and told Louise a long story about killing snakes in India which she found very enthralling; but he made no mention of his lonely state in Boulogne. Louise wondered whether he dared not trust himself. These quiet men, who had spent many years in the wilds, sometimes lost their heads when the moment of passion arrived. She was determined to be prepared for any eventuality. After all, she was not ignorant; she had been married before.
The prospect of a change in the near future made her life a little unsettling. She could not give her whole mind to her godson Gyggy, who was about to make his première communion. And yet she must not fail him in this most critical moment of his life. It was so difficult for him, poor fellow, being the one Catholic of the family. His father and mother did not take the slightest interest in the affair. Louise shook her head as she thought over his last report from Monsieur Froussard: ‘This child is in need of encouragement, and some evidence of affection on the part of his parents. They would then obtain a great influence over him’. It was rather unfortunate that Ellen, and Louis-Mathurin as well, were determined to be hard on the boy, whatever happened.
‘What nonsense!’ his mother had said, when she read the report. ‘As if we treated Eugène any differently from the others. Let him show some consideration to us, that is much more to the point.’
Louise thought it best not to argue, and she went off to buy Gyggy his armlet, and his cierge, and his white trousers, and the lace for his shirt. If his parents did not see that he was properly dressed for his confirmation, then his godmother must. He showed himself so grateful, too, when he received his things; it was really quite touching.
‘Thank you so very much for the dear little image,’ he wrote from school, ‘I shall put it in my prayer book and keep it always, and I hope that after my first communion I can come out to you at Versailles. If you ever go to Lisbon again to visit my god-papa, I wish you would keep a little place for me in the steamboat and take me with you. How jolly it would be. All that is just my fancy, you know, and it will never arrive, but I do fancy it. Pray answer this letter, for it gives me such pleasure to receive letters. Papa is in London, and mamma talks of going too and taking baby with her. I shall miss them exceedingly if they go, but I do not suppose that they will miss me.
‘Let me come to see you at Versailles very soon.
‘Your affectionate nephew,
‘EUGÈNE.’
And then, in a postscript, in tiny handwriting: ‘I have not had any pocket-money for a very long time.’
Louise swallowed and blew her nose. It was so exactly like his father….
She sent him a waistcoat, and a white cravat, and all his little necessities, putting ten francs in the pocket of the waistcoat, and of course he forgot to write and thank her, which was more like his father than ever.
She thought, perhaps, that being confirmed and making his first communion would have a sobering effect on his nature—he looked so sweet and solemn, dressed in his muslin blouse and carrying his candle—but at the end of the term, when his report came in again, the statement of the Directeur was worse than ever: ‘This pupil merits punishment because of his laziness and his thoughtlessness. After his first communion he should have tried to make up for the past, but he has made no effort at all. He is the bottom of his class.’
Ellen was so angry she could scarcely trust herself to speak to him.
Thank heaven that Kicky, at any rate, would do her credit when he went up for his bachot at the Sorbonne, which he was to do in the summer. Monsieur Froussard had great hopes of him. When he had passed, and had taken his degree, he was to study chemistry. He had been dedicated to science since his first birthday, and Louis-Mathurin would hear of no other career for his eldest son. Kicky was seventeen on the sixth of March, and did not look much like a prospective scientist. He was always curling up in corners and reading Alfred de Musset, and Lamartine, and had conceived a tremendous passion for the works of Lord Byron, especially Don Juan. He was vague and dreamy and rather sentimental—everything that a successful chemist should not be—and now that his voice had broken he showed promise of becoming almost as good a singer as his father. He adored music, and once—when he had summoned enough courage—he asked his mother whether it would be possible for him to go in for music instead of science. She looked very grave, and said it would break his father’s heart. So Kicky sighed, and put the thought away from him. It did not occur to him to tear his hair and rush from the house, as Louis-Mathurin had done at his age. He was too fond of his home, of his family, of all the little familiar things that went to make his daily life. He did not want these things to change. He wished that time could stand still, or even go back—anything rather than go forward. This business of growing-up, and becoming a man, and facing the future—he did not care for it at all.
If only one could stay seventeen for eternity and it could be always summer weather, he thought; and one could run, and swim, and talk into the night with one’s friends, and laugh and be sad again, for no known reason. And there would be poetry to read, and music to listen to, every day and every night, and no strife, no cruelty, no poor suffering, wounded things, no tormented hating of one another. He knew he should be studying Horace and Cicero, in preparation for his bachot, but instead of this he reached for his pencil and began to draw Isabella’s profile as she sat at the piano….
A week before Easter, George Clarke came over from Boulogne, having first written to Ellen to say he had news of great importance.
Ellen smiled to herself, and invited Louise to tea on the Sunday.
So George had come to his decision at last. She would see that he had ample opportunity to declare himself, unless he had already done so by letter, which was probably the case. Louise arrived from Versailles in a new bonnet and rather flustered generally, declaring that she had heard no word from Captain Clarke herself, and was it not a little premature, assuming he would announce his intentions to Ellen before giving a hint of them to the most interested party, who was of course herself?
Nonsense, her sister-in-law replied; George was shy by nature, and he probably wished to consult Ellen first. All Louise had to do was to remain her quiet, charming self. Ellen and George would do the rest. She was glad that Louis-Mathurin was in London again—something to do with his poor brother, who had just died—as tact was not his strongest point, and he might make some unfortunate allusion to Louise’s first marriage.
George turned up at six o’clock, rather red in the face and self-conscious, and had scarcely been in the room two minutes before he turned to his sister and asked her permission to make a statement of great importance.
‘Why, certainly, George,’ she said, beaming upon him, and glancing significantly at Louise, who sat with modest eyes upon the ground.
The gallant Captain coughed and puffed out his chest. ‘I—ah—I am going to be married,’ he announced, ‘and let me tell you here and now I consider myself the luckiest fellow in the world to have won her affection. She’s the sweetest, purest thing God ever made, and I’m so happy and delighted and proud that I—that I—well, Ellen, my dear, words fail me.’
‘We have been expecting this for some time,’ said his sister happily, ‘and we know that you have made the best possible choice.’
‘Ah, but wait until you see her,’ cried George; and he went swiftly to the door and put his head into the passage. ‘Georgie, my sweetest heart, come in and be introduced.’ His sister stared at him in amazement, and Louise, who had said nothing at first, glanced up like a startled deer.
Before they had time to speak, or even look at one another, George reappeared, smiling and fatuous, holding by the hand a blushing, giggling girl of about nineteen, absurdly over-dressed and exceedingly lovely.
‘Let me present to you Miss Georgina Lewis, the future Mrs George Noel Clarke,’ declaimed the gallant Captain, and he beamed upon the company with all the delight and self-satisfaction of his fifty-five years.
Ellen made a tremendous effort to control herself, and, composing her horrified features into what she imagined to be a welcoming smile, she advanced towards the happy couple. ‘We are all very pleased to make your acquaintance,’ she said. ‘Kicky, Gyggy, and Isabella, come and say how-do-you-do to your new aunt.’ The boys, open-mouthed, shook hands with the beautiful vision who looked exactly the same age as themselves, and Kicky, at any rate, blushed furiously when she kissed him. Ellen did not dare glance at Louise as she too came forward with a little breathless message of congratulation, but plunged at once into an offer of tea—a fresh pot was just appearing, and would not Miss Lewis like to take off her bonnet and make herself comfortable.
