1
With the New Year came flowers from Valérie Seymour, and a little letter
of New Year’s greeting. Then she paid a rather ceremonious call and was
entertained by Puddle and Stephen. Before leaving she invited them both
to luncheon, but Stephen refused on the plea of her work.
‘I’m hard at it again.’
At this Valérie smiled. ‘Very well then, à bientôt. You know where to
find me, ring up when you’re free, which I hope will be soon.’ After
which she took her departure.
But Stephen was not to see her again for a very considerable time, as it
happened. Valérie was also a busy woman—there are other affairs beside
the writing of novels.
Brockett was in London on account of his plays. He wrote seldom, though
when he did so he was cordial, affectionate even; but now he was busy
with success, and with gathering in the shekels. He had not lost
interest in Stephen again, only just at the moment she did not fit in
with his brilliant and affluent scheme of existence.
So once more she and Puddle settled down together to a life that was
strangely devoid of people, a life of almost complete isolation, and
Puddle could not make up her mind whether she felt relieved or
regretful. For herself she cared nothing, her anxious thoughts were as
always centred in Stephen. However, Stephen appeared quite
contented—she was launched on her book and was pleased with her
writing. Paris inspired her to do good work, and as recreation she now
had her fencing—twice every week she now fenced with Buisson, that
severe but incomparable master.
Buisson had been very rude at first: ‘Hideous, affreux, horriblement
English!’ he had shouted, quite outraged by Stephen’s style. All the
same he took a great interest in her. ‘You write books; what a pity! I
could make you a fine fencer. You have the man’s muscles, and the long,
graceful lunge when you do not remember that you are a Briton and
become—what you say? ah, mais oui, self-conscious. I wish that I had
find you out sooner—however, your muscles are young still, pliant.’ And
one day he said: ‘Let me feel the muscles,’ then proceeded to pass his
hand down her thighs and across her strong loins: ‘Tiens, tiens!’ he
murmured.
After this he would sometimes look at her gravely with a puzzled
expression; but she did not resent him, nor his rudeness, nor his
technical interest in her muscles. Indeed, she liked the cross little
man with his bristling black beard and his peppery temper, and when he
remarked à propos of nothing: ‘We are all great imbeciles about nature.
We make our own rules and call them la nature; we say she do this, she
do that—imbeciles! She do what she please and then make the long nose.’
Stephen felt neither shy nor resentful.
These lessons were a great relaxation from work, and thanks to them her
health grew much better. Her body, accustomed to severe exercise, had
resented the sedentary life in London. Now, however, she began to take
care of her health, walking for a couple of hours in the Bois every day,
or exploring the tall, narrow streets that lay near her home in the
Quarter. The sky would look bright at the end of such streets by
contrast, as though it were seen through a tunnel. Sometimes she would
stand gazing into the shops of the wider and more prosperous Rue des
Saints Pères; the old furniture shops; the crucifix shop with its dozens
of crucified Christs in the window—so many crucified ivory Christs! She
would think that one must surely exist for every sin committed in Paris.
Or perhaps she would make her way over the river, crossing by the Pont
des Arts. And one morning, arrived at the Rue des Petits Champs, what
must she suddenly do but discover the Passage Choiseul, by just stepping
inside for shelter, because it had started raining.
Oh, the lure of the Passage Choiseul, the queer, rather gawky attraction
of it. Surely the most hideous place in all Paris, with its roof of
stark wooden ribs and glass panes—the roof that looks like the
vertebral column of some prehistoric monster. The chocolate smell of the
patisserie—the big one where people go who have money. The humbler,
student smell of Lavrut, where one’s grey rubber bands are sold by the
gramme and are known as: ‘Bracelets de caoutchouc.’ Where one buys
première qualité blotting paper of a deep ruddy tint and the stiffness
of cardboard, and thin but inspiring manuscript books bound in black,
with mottled, shiny blue borders. Where pencils and pens are found in
their legions, of all makes, all shapes, all colours, all prices; while
outside on the trustful trays in the Passage, lives Gomme Onyx,
masquerading as marble, and as likely to rub a hole in your paper. For
those who prefer the reading of books to the writing of them, there is
always Lemerre with his splendid display of yellow bindings. And for
those undisturbed by imagination, the taxidermist’s shop is quite near
the corner—they can stare at a sad and moth-eaten flamingo, two
squirrels, three parrots and a dusty canary. Some are tempted by the
cheap corduroy at the draper’s, where it stands in great rolls as though
it were carpet. Some pass on to the little stamp merchant, while a few
dauntless souls even enter the chemist’s—that shamelessly anatomical
chemist’s, whose wares do not figure in school manuals on the practical
uses of rubber.
And up and down this Passage Choiseul, pass innumerable idle or busy
people, bringing in mud and rain in the winter, bringing in dust and
heat in the summer, bringing in God knows how many thoughts, some part
of which cannot escape with their owners. The very air of the Passage
seems heavy with all these imprisoned thoughts.
Stephen’s thoughts got themselves entrapped with the others, but hers,
at the moment, were those of a schoolgirl, for her eye had suddenly lit
on Lavrut, drawn thereto by the trays of ornate india-rubber. And once
inside, she could not resist the ‘Bracelets de caoutchouc,’ or the
blotting paper as red as a rose, or the manuscript books with the
mottled blue borders. Growing reckless, she gave an enormous order for
the simple reason that these things looked different. In the end she
actually carried away one of those inspiring manuscript books, and then
got herself driven home by a taxi, in order the sooner to fill it.
2
That spring, in the foyer of the Comédie Francaise, Stephen stumbled
across a link with the past in the person of a middle-aged woman. The
woman was stout and wore pince-nez; her sparse brown hair was already
greying; her face, which was long, had a double chin, and that face
seemed vaguely familiar to Stephen. Then suddenly Stephen’s two hands
were seized and held fast in those of the middle-aged woman, while a
voice grown loud with delight and emotion was saying:
‘Mais oui, c’est ma petite Stévenne!’
Back came a picture of the schoolroom at Morton, with a battered red
book on its ink-stained table—the Bibliothèque Rose—‘Les Petites
Filles Modèles,’ ‘Les Bons Enfants,’ and Mademoiselle Duphot.
Stephen said: ‘To think—after all these years!’
‘Ah, quelle joie! Quelle joie!’ babbled Mademoiselle Duphot.
And now Stephen was being embraced on both cheeks, then held at arm’s
length for a better inspection. ‘But how tall, how strong you are, ma
petite Stévenne. You remember what I say, that we meet in Paris? I say
when I go, “But you come to Paris when you grow up bigger, my poor
little baby!” I keep looking and looking, but I knowed you at once. I
say, “Oui certainement, that is ma petite Stévenne, no one ’ave such
another face what I love, it could only belong to Stévenne,” I say. And
now voilà! I am correct and I find you.’
Stephen released herself firmly but gently, replying in French to calm
Mademoiselle, whose linguistic struggles increased every moment.
‘I’m living in Paris altogether,’ she told her; ‘you must come and see
me—come to dinner to-morrow; 35, Rue Jacob.’ Then she introduced Puddle
who had been an amused spectator.
The two ex-guardians of Stephen’s young mind shook hands with each other
very politely, and they made such a strangely contrasted couple that
Stephen must smile to see them together. The one was so small, so quiet
and so English; the other so portly, so tearful, so French in her
generous, if somewhat embarrassing emotion.
As Mademoiselle regained her composure, Stephen was able to observe her
more closely, and she saw that her face was excessively childish—a fact
which she, when a child, had not noticed. It was more the face of a foal
than a horse—an innocent, new-born foal.
Mademoiselle said rather wistfully: ‘I will dine with much pleasure
to-morrow evening, but when will you come and see me in my home? It is
in the Avenue de la Grande Armée, a small apartment, very small but so
pretty—it is pleasant to have one’s treasures around one. The bon Dieu
has been very good to me, Stévenne, for my Aunt Clothilde left me a
little money when she died; it has proved a great consolation.’
‘I’ll come very soon,’ promised Stephen.
Then Mademoiselle spoke at great length of her aunt, and of Maman who
had also passed on into glory; Maman, who had had her chicken on Sunday
right up to the very last moment, Dieu merci! Even when her teeth had
grown loose in the gums, Maman had asked for her chicken on Sunday. But
alas, the poor sister who once made little bags out of beads for the
shops in the Rue de la Paix, and who had such a cruel and improvident
husband—the poor sister had now become totally blind, and therefore
dependent on Mademoiselle Duphot. So after all Mademoiselle Duphot still
worked, giving lessons in French to the resident English; and sometimes
she taught the American children who were visiting Paris with their
parents. But then it was really far better to work; one might grow too
fat if one remained idle.
She beamed at Stephen with her gentle brown eyes. ‘They are not as you
were, ma chère petite Stévenne, not clever and full of intelligence, no;
and at times I almost despair of their accent. However, I am not at all
to be pitied, thanks to Aunt Clothilde and the good little saints who
surely inspired her to leave me that money.’
When Stephen and Puddle returned to their stalls, Mademoiselle climbed
to a humbler seat somewhere under the roof, and as she departed she
waved her plump hand at Stephen.
Stephen said: ‘She’s so changed that I didn’t know her just at first, or
else perhaps I’d forgotten. I felt terribly guilty, because after you
came I don’t think I ever answered her letters. It’s thirteen years
since she left. . . .’
Puddle nodded. ‘Yes, it’s thirteen years since I took her place and
forced you to tidy that abominable schoolroom!’ And she laughed. ‘All
the same, I like her,’ said Puddle.
3
Mademoiselle Duphot admired the house in the Rue Jacob, and she ate very
largely of the rich and excellent dinner. Quite regardless of her
increasing proportions, she seemed drawn to all those things that were
fattening.
‘I cannot resist,’ she remarked with a smile, as she reached for her
fifth marron glacé.
They talked of Paris, of its beauty, its charm. Then Mademoiselle spoke
yet again of her Maman and of Aunt Clothilde who had left them the
money, and of Julie, her blind sister.
But after the meal she quite suddenly blushed. ‘Oh, Stévenne, I have
never inquired for your parents! What must you think of such great
impoliteness? I lose my head the moment I see you and grow selfish—I
want you to know about me and my Maman; I babble about my affairs. What
must you think of such great impoliteness? How is that kind and handsome
Sir Philip? And your mother, my dear, how is Lady Anna?’
And now it was Stephen’s turn to grow red. ‘My father died. . . .’ She
hesitated, then finished abruptly, ‘I don’t live with my mother any
more, I don’t live at Morton.’
Mademoiselle gasped. ‘You no longer live . . .’ she began, then
something in Stephen’s face warned her kind but bewildered guest not to
question. ‘I am deeply grieved to hear of your father’s death, my dear,’
she said very gently.
Stephen answered: ‘Yes—I shall always miss him.’
There ensued a long, rather painful silence, during which Mademoiselle
Duphot felt awkward. What had happened between the mother and daughter?
It was all very strange, very disconcerting. And Stephen, why was she
exiled from Morton? But Mademoiselle could not cope with these problems,
she knew only that she wanted Stephen to be happy, and her kind brown
eyes grew anxious, for she did not feel certain that Stephen was happy.
Yet she dared not ask for an explanation, so instead she clumsily
changed the subject.
‘When will you both come to tea with me, Stévenne?’
‘We’ll come to-morrow if you like.’ Stephen told her.
Mademoiselle Duphot left rather early; and all the way home to her
apartment her mind felt exercised about Stephen.
She thought: ‘She was always a strange little child, but so dear. I
remember her when she was little, riding her pony astride like a boy;
and how proud he would seem, that handsome Sir Philip—they would look
more like father and son, those two. And now—is she not still a little
bit strange?’
But these thoughts led her nowhere, for Mademoiselle Duphot was quite
unacquainted with the bypaths of nature. Her innocent mind was untutored
and trustful; she believed in the legend of Adam and Eve, and no
careless mistakes had been made in their garden!
4
The apartment in the Avenue de la Grande Armée was as tidy as Valérie’s
had been untidy. From the miniature kitchen to the miniature salon,
everything shone as though recently polished, for here in spite of
restricted finances, no dust was allowed to harbour.
Mademoiselle Duphot beamed on her guests as she herself opened the door
to admit them. ‘For me this is very real joy,’ she declared. Then she
introduced them to her sister Julie, whose eyes were hidden behind dark
glasses.
The salon was literally stuffed with what Mademoiselle had described as
her ‘treasures.’ On its tables were innumerable useless objects which
appeared for the most part, to be mementoes. Coloured prints of
Bouguereaus hung on the walls, while the chairs were upholstered in a
species of velvet so hard as to be rather slippery to sit on, yet that
when it was touched felt rough to the fingers. The woodwork of these
inhospitable chairs had been coated with varnish until it looked sticky.
Over the little inadequate fireplace smiled a portrait of Maman when she
was quite young. Maman, dressed in tartan for some strange reason, but
in tartan that had never hob-nobbed with the Highlands—a present this
portrait had been from a cousin who had wished to become an artist.
Julie extended a white, groping hand. She was like her sister only very
much thinner, and her face had the closed rather blank expression that
is sometimes associated with blindness.
‘Which is Stévenne?’ she inquired in an anxious voice; ‘I have heard so
much about Stévenne!’
Stephen said: ‘Here I am,’ and she grasped the hand, pitiful of this
woman’s affliction.
But Julie smiled broadly. ‘Yes, I know it is you from the feel,’—she
had started to stroke Stephen’s coat-sleeve—‘my eyes have gone into my
fingers these days. It is strange, but I seem to see through my
fingers.’ Then she turned and found Puddle whom she also stroked. ‘And
now I know both of you,’ declared Julie.
The tea when it came was that straw-coloured liquid which may even now
be met with in Paris.
‘English tea bought especially for you, my Stévenne,’ remarked
Mademoiselle proudly. ‘We drink only coffee, but I said to my sister,
Stévenne likes the good tea, and so, no doubt, does Mademoiselle Puddle.
At four o’clock they will not want coffee—you observe how well I
remember your England!’
However, the cakes proved worthy of France, and Mademoiselle ate them as
though she enjoyed them. Julie ate very little and did not talk much.
She just sat there and listened, quietly smiling; and while she listened
she crocheted lace as though, as she said, she could see through her
fingers. Then Mademoiselle Duphot explained how it was that those
delicate hands had become so skilful, replacing the eyes which their
ceaseless labour had robbed of the blessèd privilege of sight—explained
so simply yet with such conviction, that Stephen must marvel to hear
her.
‘It is all our little Thérèse,’ she told Stephen. ‘You have heard of
her? No? Ah, but what a pity! Our Thérèse was a nun at the Carmel at
Lisieux, and she said: “I will let fall a shower of roses when I die.”
She died not so long ago, but already her Cause has been presented at
Rome by the Very Reverend Father Rodrigo! That is very wonderful, is it
not, Stévenne? But she does not wait to become a saint; ah, but no, she
is young and therefore impatient. She cannot wait, she has started
already to do miracles for all those who ask her. I asked that Julie
should not be unhappy through the loss of her eyes—for when she is idle
she is always unhappy—so our little Thérèse has put a pair of new eyes
in her fingers.’
Julie nodded. ‘It is true,’ she said very gravely; ‘before that I was
stupid because of my blindness. Everything felt very strange, and I
stumbled about like an old blind horse. I was terribly stupid, far more
so than many. Then one night Véronique asked Thérèse to help me, and the
next day I could find my way round our room. From then on my fingers saw
what they touched, and now I can even make lace quite well because of
this sight in my fingers.’ Then turning to the smiling Mademoiselle
Duphot: ‘But why do you not show her picture to Stévenne?’
So Mademoiselle Duphot went and fetched the small picture of Thérèse,
which Stephen duly examined, and the face that she saw was ridiculously
youthful—round with youth it still was, and yet very determined. Sœur
Thérèse looked as though if she really intended to become a saint, the
devil himself would be hard put to it to stop her. Then Puddle must also
examine the picture, while Stephen was shown some relics, a piece of the
habit and other things such as collect in the wake of sainthood.
When they left, Julie asked them to come again; she said: ‘Come often,
it will give us such pleasure.’ Then she thrust on her guests twelve
yards of coarse lace which neither of them liked to offer to pay for.
Mademoiselle murmured: ‘Our home is so humble for Stévenne; we have very
little to offer.’ She was thinking of the house in the Rue Jacob, a
grand house, and then too she remembered Morton.
But Julie, with the strange insight of the blind, or perhaps because of
those eyes in her fingers, answered quickly: ‘She will not care,
Véronique, I cannot feel that sort of pride in your Stévenne.’
5
After their first visit they went very often to Mademoiselle’s modest
little apartment. Mademoiselle Duphot and her quiet blind sister were
indeed their only friends now in Paris, for Brockett was in America on
business, and Stephen had not rung up Valérie Seymour.
Sometimes when Stephen was busy with her work, Puddle would make her way
there all alone. Then she and Mademoiselle would get talking about
Stephen’s childhood, about her future, but guardedly, for Puddle must be
careful to give nothing away to the kind, simple woman. As for
Mademoiselle, she too must be careful to accept all and ask no
questions. Yet in spite of the inevitable gaps and restraints, a real
sympathy sprang up between them, for each sensed in the other a valuable
ally who would fight a good fight on behalf of Stephen. And now Stephen
would quite often send her car to take the blind Julie for a drive
beyond Paris. Julie would sniff the air and tell Burton that through
smelling their greenness she could see the trees; he would listen to her
broken and halting English with a smile—they were a queer lot these
French. Or perhaps he would drive the other Mademoiselle up to
Montmartre for early Mass on a Sunday. She belonged to something to do
with a heart; it all seemed rather uncanny to Burton. He thought of the
Vicar who had played such fine cricket, and suddenly felt very homesick
for Morton. Fruit would find its way to the little apartment, together
with cakes and large marrons glacés. Then Mademoiselle Duphot would
become frankly greedy, eating sweets in bed while she studied her
booklets on the holy and very austere Thérèse, who had certainly not
eaten marrons glacés.
Thus the spring, that gentle yet fateful spring of 1914, slipped into
the summer. With the budding of flowers and the singing of birds it
slipped quietly on towards great disaster; while Stephen, whose book was
now nearing completion, worked harder than ever in Paris.