AN ELOPEMENT ON NEW LINES.
Mdlle. Duprez occupied a first floor in an airy terrace of houses
overlooking the Hoe. She was the kind of little woman to whom eating
and drinking and fine dress are matters of very small moment, but
who could not have endured to live in a shabby house or an ugly
neighbourhood. All her surroundings were neat and bright and fair to
look upon. She had brought over her furniture from Paris. It was the
remnant of that furniture which had adorned her great-grandmother's
house at Versailles, before the fiery spirits of the _tiers état_ met
in the tennis-court, and the Revolution began. There was not much of it
left, but that little was of the best period in French cabinet-work,
and in the most perfect taste.
Louise Duprez loved this heritage from her ancestors as if the chairs
and sofa, cabinet and writing-table, had been living things. She
used to sit and contemplate them sometimes, between the lights, in a
dreamy mood, and think how much they might have told her about Marie
Antoinette and her court, and the old days of the Oeil de Boeuf, if
they could but have found a voice. The _bonheur du jour_, with its
ormolu mounts, looked very human as the firelight shone upon it. The
goats' heads seemed to wink and twinkle like human eyes, while the
floral mouldings assumed the form of a broad human grin, as who should
say, "Ah, I could tell you some fine farces about those ladies, if I
could but speak!"
Mademoiselle's rooms were always the pink of neatness; not a book
out of line on the shelves above the secrétaire, not a scrap of work
or a stray pin-cushion littering the tables; newspapers, pamphlets,
magazines, all in their places; while Mademoiselle herself was one of
those dainty little women who never have a pin awry in their toilet.
So when Miss Heathcote was ushered into the singing-mistress's _salon_
at half-past nine in the morning, her unexpected appearance at such an
early hour caused neither confusion nor annoyance.
Mademoiselle had been breakfasting at a table in front of the open
window--a temperate meal of coffee and roll, neatly arranged on a
tray. Spotless damask and pretty china made the tray a picture, with
Mademoiselle's pink cambric gown and bright little face for background.
"My dear child, how early! I am enchanted to see you!" she cried,
jumping up and kissing her old pupil on both cheeks. "What a good girl
to come to me before my day's work begins! This is one of my full days,
from eleven till five. Squall, squall, thump, thump, every kind of
outrage upon the genius of harmony must these poor ears of mine suffer;
and I must be very polite, all the same; must not lose patience and
cry aloud--ah, how I long to do it sometimes!--'My love, you have no
more voice than a peacock, no more ear than a four-post bedstead; your
accent is diabolical, and you are the very embodiment of idiotcy.' You
see one must not be quite frank with one's pupils. But, Hilda, my pet,
what is the matter? You have been crying!"
"Not since last night, Mademoiselle," answered Hilda, looking at her
friend with hard, dry eyes; "I cried so much last night that I don't
think I shall ever shed a tear again. There must be an end, you know,
even to tears."
"My sweetest child, what in Heaven's name has happened? Your brother,
Mr. Effecotte!"
Louise Duprez gasped as she spoke the name. Edward Heathcote was her
benefactor, that one Englishman whom she admired and honoured with
all her heart and mind, whom she thought almost equal to the typical
Frenchman, the French gentleman of a _régime_ that is almost forgotten,
of a day that is dead.
"My brother is quite well, at least as far as I know," answered Hilda,
with sisterly indifference; and then she made Mdlle. Duprez sit down,
and knelt at her feet, clasping her hands, and looking up at her
earnestly. "My dear, kind friend, I want you to help me in a crisis of
my life," she said.
"To help you to run away with Mr. Grahame, I suppose. No, no, Hilda,
_pas si bête_; I am your brother's friend above all things. If Mr.
Effecotte disapproves of your marriage, I will do nothing to further
it."
"Pray don't be in such a hurry," said Hilda. "Hear my trouble first,
and then help me to lighten it, if you can. I think you ought to know
that I am not the kind of girl to make a runaway marriage."
"Indeed, I know nothing of the kind about any English girl. Runaway
marriages seem as common in this country as runaway knocks at my door."
"Englishwomen run away before marriage, and Frenchwomen after,"
retorted Hilda.
"I don't think your English matrons such irreproachable creatures,"
said the Parisienne. "There is your Lady Valeria Harborough, for
instance, who had one of the best husbands in Christendom, and yet was
always surrounded by a bevy of admirers, and made herself more talked
about than any woman in Plymouth."
"Was she really talked about?" asked Hilda eagerly.
"Really, really. I don't mean to say that she was supposed to be
actually incorrect in her conduct; but she brought her Indian manners
back to England with her, and she had always her court of fools and
fops about her. And now the papers are beginning to be impertinent
about her--or, at least, this stupid little paper, which models itself
on some of the London society papers."
Mdlle. Duprez pointed to a periodical on the table at her side--a sheet
of eight pages, printed on pink paper, and calling itself the _Plymouth
Censor_. Hilda snatched it up, and ran her eye rapidly along the
paragraphs, till she came to one worded thus:
"Rumours are already afloat in privileged circles as to the
probabilities of a second hymen for the beautiful widow of a general
officer, lately gone over to the majority. Foremost in the betting
stands a certain _ci-devant_ captain of Engineers, who saved the
General's life by a dexterous shot in the jungle, and who has been _du
dernier bien_ with the General's charming wife ever since. Ours is an
age of rehabilitations."
"Lady Valeria was right," murmured Hilda. "People know all about her
folly. Her only redemption will be her marriage with Bothwell."
And then she opened her heart to her old friend--told her everything
that had passed between herself and Lady Valeria--told her how she had
made up her mind to sacrifice her own happiness rather than to let
Bothwell's life be spoiled by a mistaken engagement. At first Mdlle.
Duprez ridiculed her plan as Quixotic to absurdity, and refused to
have anything to do with it. But the girl's indomitable resolution,
her intense earnestness of purpose, prevailed at last over the
Frenchwoman's scruples. Louise Duprez, at four-and-forty years of age,
was as romantic as the simplest schoolgirl. She had spent the last
fifteen years of her life almost entirely among girls. She had been
the confidante of their love-affairs, their fond dreams of the ideal;
she had counselled and lectured them, had sympathised and sorrowed and
joyed with them. And now she was quite ready to be impressed by the
heroic element in Hilda's intended sacrifice. The happiness of one
young life given away to secure the fame and fortune of another and
dearer life. It was a romantic scheme which kindled all Louise Duprez's
warmest fancies.
"Would I were young again, to do such a thing myself for my beloved!"
she thought to herself, with a tender sigh for her only lover, who had
perished, a burly major of Artillery, on the bloody field of Sedan.
"How shall I ever answer to your brother--my best of friends--if I
assist you in rebellion against him?" asked Mdlle. Duprez, after a
thoughtful silence.
"I am not rebelling against my brother. I am only leaving my home in
order to break an engagement which Edward always disapproved. He gave
his consent reluctantly at the last, to please Mrs. Wyllard. He will be
very glad to hear that the engagement is cancelled."
"But you have no right to conceal your whereabouts from him."
"The concealment need not last long--only till Bothwell has gone back
to his old love; and that I should think will be very soon," with a
stifled sob. "There is no use in your being unkind to me. If I do not
find a home in France with your aid, I shall find it without you. I
have made up my mind to go on to Southampton by the midday train, and
to cross to Havre to-night. The steamer leaves Southampton at ten
o'clock. There will be plenty of time for me to get there."
"And you are going alone, without even a maid?"
"Absolutely alone."
"You cannot possibly live alone among strangers--it is out of the
question," protested Mademoiselle.
"That is why I ask you to give me an introduction to some friends
of yours in a quiet part of Paris, who will take me into their
family circle, and help me to carry on my musical education at the
Conservatoire. The Conservatoire has been the dream of my life. You
must know of such people, with your numerous acquaintance among the
musical profession--"
"Yes, no doubt I know of such people. But how am I to reconcile the
idea of giving you such an introduction with my duty to your brother?"
argued Mdlle. Duprez.
"Your duty to my brother--if there is any such thing--is to find me a
respectable home in Paris," said Hilda. "I tell you once for all that
I have made up my mind to start for Paris to-night--to live there in
some quiet quarter for the next year or so. I shall go forth in the
strength of my own ignorance and courage, like Miss Bird in her journey
across the mountains, if you don't help me. Perhaps I may fall among
thieves: and mind, if I do, it will be your fault."
She spoke with extraordinary resolution, with an animated air which
seemed hardly compatible with grief. Yet this spurious gaiety of hers
was the worst symptom of all, and was very close to hysteria.
Louise Duprez could read the meaning that underlay that false air
of good spirits. She saw that the girl was nearly heart-broken, and
that this resolution of hers which she had taken up so heroically was
perhaps the very best possible issue out of her sorrow: for Louise
accepted Hilda's own view of the case, and took it for granted that
Bothwell was willing to go back to his old love. With her experience as
a woman of the world, having seen how selfishness and self-love are the
motive-powers that propel the machine called society, Mdlle. Duprez was
ready to believe that General Harborough's death, and Lady Valeria's
position as a rich widow, would entirely alter Bothwell's views.
It was very hard for Hilda: but still human nature is human nature, and
a young man with his way to carve in the world would hardly regret such
an opportunity as a marriage with Lady Valeria Harborough.
Had Hilda allowed matters to take their course, the poor young man
would no doubt have gone quietly to his fate; he would have marched
heroically up to the altar; he would have settled down with his young
wife in the village home he had planned for himself; he would have
drudged as a teacher of stupid lads; and he would have repented ever
afterwards. What happiness could possibly come to Hilda in a life spent
with a disappointed man, who would remember, every day of his toilsome
existence, that he had missed fame and fortune for his wife's sake?
"That a man should be fond of teaching for its own sake--_ce n'est
pas Dieu possible!_" exclaimed Mdlle. Duprez, with a shuddering
reminiscence of her own sufferings.
So, having reasoned thus, she made up her mind to help Hilda to carry
out her act of self-abnegation.
"If I did not believe that you are acting for your own ultimate
happiness, I would not aid you in this matter by one jot or one
tittle," said the little woman, in her own energetic way; "but, as it
is, I am going to put on my bonnet and take you to Paris."
This was said in so quiet a manner that Hilda thought her friend was
joking.
"You don't mean to go with me?" she began.
"I don't mean to let your brother's sister travel alone, arrive alone,
and a stranger, in such a city as Paris. There is no Rue des Fèves now,
with its famous Lapin Blanc, where Eugène Sue's thieves used to keep
their rendezvous; but for all that has been done, Paris is Paris--and
if you have set your mind upon going there, I must go with you."
"But, dear Mademoiselle, think of the trouble, the fatigue--and your
lessons."
"My lessons must stand over till my return. I shall be back next
Monday. Don't say another word, Hilda. There's no time to be wasted
in talk. You are going to eat your breakfast. I'll wager you left home
without so much as a cup of tea."
"There was nobody up," faltered Hilda, who had eaten nothing since Lady
Valeria's visit, and who was suffering all the pangs of exhaustion.
"Of course not; and you have been walking and travelling, and are ready
to faint at this moment," protested Louise, ringing as she spoke. "You
are going to have some nice hot coffee--I have taught them to make
coffee in this house, I who speak to you--and an egg, while I write
to my pupils to apologise for my sudden disappearance; and precisely
at twelve o'clock there will be a fly at the door to take us to the
station."
"I have a cheque to cash at the Bank," said Hilda. "Perhaps the maid
could get it cashed for me."
"For how much is your cheque?"
"Two hundred and fifty pounds."
"Do you think I would let my poor little slavey trot about Plymouth
with two hundred and fifty pounds?" cried Mdlle. "She is as honest as
the day; but the magnitude of the sum would turn her brain. She would
walk into the harbour unawares. No, if you have such a cheque as that
to cash, you must take it to the Bank yourself; and instead of carrying
all the cash with you to Paris, you had better draw only fifty, and
leave the two hundred on deposit. You can draw more when you want it."
The slavey answered the bell, a neat little handmaiden in pink cotton,
who was told to get breakfast for Miss Heathcote, and to order a fly to
be at the door at a quarter to twelve.
"That will allow us fifteen minutes for the Bank," said Mademoiselle,
opening her desk, and beginning her letters.
Everything was done in a brisk business-like manner. It was only when
they were in the train which was to take them by way of Exeter to
Salisbury, and then to Southampton, that Hilda had leisure to realise
the step which she had taken.
She had written to Bothwell in perfect frankness, had opened her
heart to him, telling him that his happiness was dearer to her than
her own, that his honour was paramount in her mind over every other
consideration. And she told him that honour should constrain him to
marry the woman who had been compromised by his love in the past, and
who loved him unselfishly and devotedly in the present, holding her own
pride as nothing when weighed against her love for him.
"No woman could act as Lady Valeria has acted this day to whom love was
not all in all," she wrote, pleading her rival's cause, because she
thought it was the cause of right, and Bothwell's cause also. "Think
how such a woman must have lowered herself in her own self-respect
when she came to me, her inferior in social station, her junior by ten
years, to make confession of her love. It was for your sake she stooped
so low, Bothwell.
"Do not try--out of a mistaken sense of duty--to follow me, or to
dissuade me from a decision which is irrevocable. When you receive
this letter I shall have entered upon a new phase of life, in which it
would be almost impossible for you to find me--and if you did find me,
to what end? My mind is made up. Do not allow your kind heart to be
tormented by needless remorse. My heart is not broken, dear Bothwell;
I mean to live my life peacefully, contentedly; to cultivate new ideas
of happiness, wider horizons. You need never be troubled at the thought
that this cancelled engagement of ours has broken my life. Be sure only
of one thing--that my dearest hope, wherever I may be, will be for your
welfare. To know that your life is happy will be enough to fill my cup
of joy."
She had written from the depth of her faithful heart, resigning him
willingly, having no sense of ill-usage, no anger even against Lady
Valeria: only some touch of contempt for a woman who had been an
unworthy wife to a noble husband.
And now the thing was done. Her letter, posted in Plymouth by her own
hand, was on its way to Bothwell. Could she doubt, knowing what she
knew, that the letter would come upon him as a welcome release, would
relieve him from a most embarrassing position? And then she remembered
that wretched paragraph in the _Censor_; and it seemed to her that
Bothwell's first duty in life was to set Lady Valeria right before the
world. Even if he had ceased to love her, his duty was not the less
clear; but who could doubt that the old love still held the first place
in his heart?
The journey from Plymouth to Southampton seemed woefully long that
bright autumn day. The sun was almost as strong as it had been in
August, and the light glared in upon Hilda as she sat in the corner
of the carriage, very white and very silent, but perfectly calm and
collected. Her eyelids were heavy and swollen after the night of
weeping, but her eyes were tearless. Louise Duprez gave a furtive look
every now and then, to see if the girl was quietly weeping behind the
newspaper which she pretended to read; but there were no tears in the
wistful eyes, so full of troubled thought.
Once, when they had the compartment to themselves for a little while,
between station and station, Louise put out her hand and clasped
Hilda's as it held the newspaper.
"Have you changed your mind?" she asked; "you have had plenty of time
for thinking in this creeping omnibus-train. Shall we take another
train at Exeter, and go back again?"
"Not for the world," answered Hilda firmly. "Do you suppose I did not
deliberate before I made up my mind last night? I was thinking all
night long."
Mdlle. Duprez gave a little submissive sigh. In her own philosophic
mind she was sure the girl was right; but then Mdlle. Duprez had
arrived at an age when the surrender of a lover may be borne; and she
was keen-witted enough to know that these things were different for
Hilda.
It was only in the afternoon of the next day that they arrived at
the Saint-Lazare terminus, whence they drove at once to the Hôtel du
Bon Lafontaine, on the left side of the Seine, a house much affected
by bishops and abbés, and having a semi-clerical and old-world air
altogether different from the smart caravanserais in Anglo-American
Paris. Hilda was too unhappy to feel any delight in the grandeur of
Boulevards, churches, and palaces, which she passed on her way from
the station to the hotel. Her aching eyes saw all things dimly, as in
a dream. She had only a vague sense of wide streets, glancing river,
stupendous architecture, white in the autumn sun: and then when the
carriage had crossed the river there came narrower streets, shabbier
houses, an air of busier and more homely life.
Mdlle. Duprez ordered lunch at the hotel, where she was known and
welcomed with friendliest greeting by manageress and head-waiter; and
Hilda, for the first time in her life, found herself sitting in the
public dining-room of a Parisian hotel. Happily at this hour of the
day the room was empty; and Hilda and her friend were as much alone at
their little table looking into the quaint old Parisian garden as they
could have been at The Spaniards.
And now Mdlle. Duprez unfolded her plans. She knew of a family living
in the Rue du Bac, an artistic family, the father and sons painters,
engravers, caricaturists; one of the daughters literary, another
musical and a pupil at the Conservatoire; the mother all that there
is of the most _bourgeoise_, but a good creature, devoted to her
children--a woman to whose care Mdlle. Duprez felt that she could
safely confide her young friend.
"It will be a long jaunt from the Rue du Bac to the Conservatoire in
the Rue du Faubourg Poissonniére," she said, "but you and Mathilde can
go there together, and it will do you good to take long walks. The only
danger is that you may run against your brother on the Boulevard."
"I should not think Edward would stay much longer in Paris," said Hilda.
"Perhaps while he is in Paris it would be safer for you to go in the
omnibus," suggested Mdlle. Duprez. "Mr. Heathcote is not likely to be
riding in omnibuses."
The little woman trotted off to the Rue du Bac, leaving Hilda to amuse
herself with a flabby copy of _L'Univers_, three days old; or to
gaze despondently at the stony quadrangle, with its bust of the good
Lafontaine, and its three or four evergreens. Seen by those melancholy
eyes of hers, the garden looked like a family vault, with the good
Lafontaine for the father of the race.
Mdlle. Duprez came back in less than an hour. She had seen that dear
good soul Mdme. Tillet, and had settled everything. Mdme. Tillet would
be happy to receive Miss Heathcote, and would be to her as a mother.
By putting her two daughters into one room, she could contrive to
spare a neat little sleeping apartment for the new inmate. Things
were somewhat Bohemian in the house; but what would you expect with a
gifted and eccentric family? Everything was scrupulously clean. There
triumphed the household genius, Mdme. Tillet, born in an old farmhouse
in Brittany, where you might have eaten your dinner off the red brick
floor.
Mathilde Tillet, the musical daughter, was prepared to welcome Miss
Heathcote as a sister. There was no one in the family besides herself
who cared a straw for classical music, from Beethoven to Raff. The
brothers all believed in the _Madame Angot_ school, and had no sympathy
for anything loftier. Poor Mathilde had been pining for sympathy; and
to have a young companion who would toil at Bach's fugues and preludes,
and cram Chopin, Raff, and Brahms, and trudge to the Conservatoire with
her, would be delightful.
"They are going to make much of you," said Louise Duprez, "I will
answer for that in advance. My only fear is that the three brothers
will all fall in love with you, and then there will be storms. They
are rather fiery spirits."
"I shall not give them any provocation," said Hilda; and indeed the
pale grave face, with the troubled look in the eyes, was not suggestive
of coquetry.
"Mdme. Tillet promises to be ready to receive you to-morrow," continued
Mdlle. Duprez. "I have agreed for you to pay her her own terms, which
I do not think exorbitant, considering that everything in Paris is
execrably dear. You are to pay her ten pounds a calendar month, which
is to include everything, even to your laundress."
"It sounds very cheap," said Hilda, and she would have said the same if
the sum had been twenty pounds, or even forty. She was not in a state
of mind in which to consider pounds, shillings, and pence.
Mdlle. Duprez insisted upon taking her to see some of the sights
of Paris--Notre Dame, the Louvre--and then they drove to the
Conservatoire, and made inquiries as to the conditions under which
Miss Heathcote, as a stranger, might be allowed to take lessons from
the professors attached to that institution. She was to take singing
lessons from Monsieur Somebody of great renown, and music lessons from
Madame Somebody of equal renown. She was to have in all four lessons a
week, on four different days; and it seemed to Mdlle. Duprez that she
would thus be too closely occupied to have leisure for brooding on her
grief. The professors of the Parisian Conservatoire are very severe in
their teaching, and a good deal of work is required of a pupil. The
pianiste must play her portion of Chopin and her tale of Bach without
book at the second time of hearing. The vocalist must give proof that
she has laboured earnestly at her _solfeggi_.
After the business interview at the Conservatoire, where the name of
Mdlle. Duprez was a power, the kindly little Frenchwoman ordered the
coachman to drive by the Boulevard and the Parc Monceau to the Bois
de Boulogne. She steeped her young friend in the glory and beauty of
Paris, hoping to prevent the possibility of much thought amidst so new
and bright a world. And then she proposed that they should get seats at
the Comédie Française, where a new play of Sardou's was being acted.
Hilda roused herself from the lethargy in which she had looked at the
splendours of the Faubourg Saint-Honoré, and the brightness of the
Bois, to protest against the idea of the theatre.
"I am not going to pretend to amuse myself when I am miserable," she
said. "I mean to forget Bothwell by and by, or to think of him only as
a dear friend whose happiness makes me happy; but I cannot pretend to
have forgotten him to-day. I won't go to the theatre and make believe
to be amused. I should feel as if I were seeking pleasures abroad when
there was some one that I loved lying dead at home. But that need
not prevent your seeing Sardou's play, dear Mademoiselle. I can stay
quietly at the hotel, and read myself to sleep."
"My child, I don't care a straw for Sardou's play, except as a means
of making you forget your troubles. We will go and take a quiet cup
of tea with Mdme. Tillet, so that you may get reconciled to your new
surroundings. That will be much better; and then you must go to bed
early and get a good night's rest."
They dined at the hotel, in the odour of sanctity, as it were, for
a bishop and a curé were dining at the table next them, and dining
uncommonly well with a nice appreciation of the _plat du jour_, and
of some excellent chambertin which appeared towards the close of the
entertainment.
"I hope you won't be horrified when you hear that the Tillets live over
a shop," said Mdlle. Duprez, as she and Hilda were walking down the Rue
de Grenelle on their way to the Rue du Bac. "It is only a quiet little
glover's shop, but I thought the idea might shock you."
"I am not at all shocked. I should not be, even, if Mdme. Tillet kept
the shop," answered Hilda, smiling her faint sweet smile, which told of
a gentle nature and a heart in pain.
They came to the glover's shop presently, a very obscure little shop in
a street where there are many big shops; shops of renown, even, like
the Petit Saint-Thomas, and the Bon Marché, the Whiteley of Paris.
There was a private door beside the glover's. A narrow passage and a
dark staircase conducted to the abode of the Tillets, which was on the
second floor, and the approach to which echoed with sonorous laughter
and manly voices, with an admixture of girlish treble.
"The children are all at home," said Mdlle. Duprez, who had been
accustomed to hear Mdme. Tillet talk of her bearded and well-grown
brood as "mes enfants."
Hilda found herself presently in the bosom of the family, being
embraced by Mdme. Tillet, who was a stout, comfortable-looking matron
in a gray cashmere gown and black mittens. The family sitting-room was
a spacious apartment, with piano, book-cases, easels, drawing-tables,
work-tables, all the means of various kinds of study and art; and it
seemed overflowing with human life. Half-buried in an armchair by
the hearth reclined the father; the three sons, Adolphe, Victor, and
Frédéric, were seated at different tables, each with his particular
lamp; and the two daughters sat on each side of a large work-basket,
stitching industriously at a new gown which they were making together.
"Welcome, my sweet young friend," said Mdme. Tillet, and then proceeded
to introduce her children.
Adolphe, the eldest, was distinguished for his etchings, and rose
from his delicate work upon a sheet of copper to receive the new
inmate. He was a big bearded fellow, with a mahogany complexion and
slouching shoulders, in manners and disposition as simple as a child.
Victor was a wood-engraver, who worked for Hachette on the Boulevard
Saint-Germain, hard by, and earned more money than any one else in the
family. Frédéric was the genius, a caricaturist. He drew for the _Petit
Journal_ and the _Vie Parisienne_, and devoted his days and nights
to the concoction of _bêtises_ for those papers. Ten years ago the
father had been on the high road to fame and fortune as a painter of
_genre_; but he had let other runners in the race go by him, somehow;
and now the family _pot-au-feu_ was supplied by the industry of the
children, while the father dreamed his day-dreams, and reviled his more
successful contemporaries, by the domestic hearth. The sons were great
hulking, soft-hearted fellows, who adored their mother, tolerated their
father's idleness without a murmur, and had no fault except that of a
disposition to fall in love at the very slightest provocation.
Marcelline, the elder daughter, gained her share of the family
_pâtée_ by the exercise of her pen. She wrote for two or three
fashion-magazines, and was an authority upon the ways and customs,
the houses and gowns, of the great world, under various high-sounding
_noms de plume_. She signed herself in one paper La Comtesse Boisjoli,
in another La Marquise de la Vallière. Needless to add that she had
never crossed the thresholds of those great houses which she described
so glibly. She obtained her information from shopkeepers, her glimpses
of society from the pavement on which rank and beauty alighted for an
instant in their passage from the carriage to the hall-door. All the
rest was evolved from a lively inner-consciousness.
Mathilde was the more serious sister, devoted to art for art's sake;
believing in Bach and the severe school as the highest ideal in life,
worshipping the memory of Berlioz, and despising those vanities which
occupied the thoughts of her elder sister.
All the family made Hilda welcome. They praised her French, pronounced
falteringly in a paroxysm of shyness. The girls took off her hat and
jacket, and installed her in a comfortable chair, while Madame bustled
about with the _bonne_, and set out a tea-tray and a feast of sweet
cakes such as Frenchwomen love. Nothing could be more fortunate than
that dear Mdlle. Duprez and her sweet young friend had dropped in to
tea this evening, protested Mdme. Tillet, for they were momentarily
expecting a visit from one of the most intellectual men in Paris,
Sigismond Trottier. "You must have heard of M. Trottier," said Madame;
"his name must be known in London as well as it is in Paris."
Hilda blushingly admitted that she knew very little of London, and that
she had never heard of M. Trottier.
"Really! But he must have a world-wide fame. The _Taon_, for which he
writes, has made a greater sensation than even the _Lanterne_ in the
days of Napoleon III. The last defeat of the Government was ascribed
to the influence of the _Taon_. The _Taon_ has done more to undermine
the Conservative party than any other paper," said M. Tillet from the
depths of his easy-chair. "Yet politics are not Trottier's chief forte.
As a politician he is trenchant and effective, but as a writer upon
social topics he is really great."
The _bonne_ opened the door and announced "M. Trottier," and Hilda
looked anxiously at the newcomer, finding herself for the first time in
her life in the company of a literary genius.
She would have liked to see the literary genius in a cleaner shirt; but
she had stories of Chatterton, of Savage, and Johnson and Goldsmith at
heart; and it seemed to her only natural that genius should be rather
dirty, and clad in a greasy olive-green coat, that genius should have
long gray hair, bushy eyebrows, and a cadaverous visage. She sat in
her corner silently, and did not expect to be noticed; but M. Tillet
presented his friend to her in a special manner, and to her surprise
the olive-green genius gave a little start at mention of her name.
"Effecotte!" he exclaimed; "are all the English people, who are not
Smith or Brown, called Effecotte? Or is this young lady related to my
old friend M. Edouard Effecotte, of Cornouailles?"
"Grand Dieu," exclaimed Mdlle. Duprez, "what a small world it is we
live in!"