[In which Mimi replies to Monsieur Henry.]
11, The Parade, Felixstowe,
Wednesday.
Ah, cher Monsieur Henry, if I knew how to answer you.
Why should I go to dream a little while if I must awake to remember.
_Ah, mille noms, faut-il être Parisienne._
There must be roses in the heart if we would wear them on the cheek;
but in my heart none, Monsieur Henry; for it has grown empty.
I hear the Chevalier--but why would he call me to that great city of
shadows? Does Monsieur Barrymore laugh at me when he would have me
believe that he is happy in this England? Shall I think well of
Monsieur Oleander because he also is deceived a little while? Here I
look all day across the sea where they tell me that France is. I am a
child, but they call me a woman. _Ah, mes enfants!_ What pages I have
turned in this great book of sorrow that none may see my tears fall
upon them.
A little while and the sun will shine, and then there is the great
cold road again and the sad-faced people, and we go away, oh, so far
away towards the dark and the night; and there is no light in the sky
behind us to tell us where the city is; we hear no laughter anywhere;
but the end of the world is beyond, and we voyage with shut lips
toward it.
I remember such a journey as this; it was long ago when I was so
little, that you, Monsieur Henry, could have put me in your great big
pocket. An old woman led me by the hand away from a great warm house
down to the water and the ships. I remember that it was twilight and
then night, and that I saw my home behind me as a star one sees low
down in the heavens. And then we came to a hut in the wood, and there
were ugly men, and I could not sleep, and when it was day all that I
had known went from my mind, and I remembered nothing but the lonely
road, and the strange faces, and the harsh words I heard. You know how
far I have journeyed since those days. Ah, what palaces we have
visited together, you and I, Monsieur Henry--and how often I have lost
you! Can you wonder that I would rest--even I?
I dance still with these English friends, and they are very kind to
me. The people here say that my dancing is wicked; but there are many
clergymen, and they love to say “shockink.” I live in a little room
where I can watch the sea, and I go out every morning, long before the
people are up, to float on the waves, and look for the ship which will
carry me back to France. But there is no mermaid here, no fairy swims
with me; I cannot find the silver shell, and I return to my little
house to say it will be never, that I shall see France no more, that
all the world has deserted me.
Shall I make you sad, Monsieur Henry, to tell you all these things? If
I do, the Chevalier will make you laugh, and that will be the
recompense. Oh, he is droll, the Chevalier. Do you remember when he
loved Madame la Comtesse de Brianville--and would have borrowed twenty
francs to marry her? _Ah, mes enfants_--but those were days!
And Monsieur Georges. Yes, I would like to see him again, and that
great Monsieur Barrymore who used to sit me on his knee before he
painted my picture.
And they are all in your Maison du bon Tabac, and there is Paris below
the windows, the Paris you love to dream of, and you sing the songs
that Jean de Bataille made. _Ah, mes enfants_--if I were there!--Your
friend,
Mimi.