THE HÔTEL LAMBERT—DOWNSTAIRS
When ladies were at home to their intimates in the Paris of the
’forties, they seated their guests about large round tables with a view
to that common exchange of wit and fancy which is the French ideal. The
mode crossed to England, and in many houses these round tables, fallen
to the uses of the dining-room or the nursery, may still be seen. But
when the Princess Czartoriski entertained in the Hôtel Lambert, under
the ceiling painted by Lebrun, which had looked down on the arm-chair
of Madame de Châtelet and the tabouret of Voltaire, she was, as became
a Pole, a law to herself. In that beautiful room, softly lit by wax
candles, her guests were free to follow their bent, to fall into
groups, or to admire at their ease the Watteaus and Bouchers which the
Princess’s father-in-law, old Prince Adam, had restored to their native
panels.
Thanks to his taste and under her rule the gallery of Hercules
presented on this evening a scene not unworthy of its past. The silks
and satins of the old régime were indeed replaced by the
high-shouldered coats, the stocks, the pins and velvet vests of the
dandies; and Thiers beaming through his glasses, or Lamartine, though
beauty, melted by the woes of Poland, hung upon his lips, might have
been thought by some unequal to the dead. But they were now what those
had been; and the women peacocked it as of old. At any rate the effect
was good, and a guest who came late, and paused a moment on the
threshold to observe the scene, thought that he had never before done
the room full justice. Presently the Princess saw him and he went
forward. The man who was talking to her made his bow, and she pointed
with her fan to the vacant place. “Felicitations, my lord,” she said.
She held out her gloved hand.
“A thousands thanks,” he said, as he bent over it. “But on what,
Princess?”
“On the success of a friend. On what we have all seen in the _Journal_.
Is it not true that you have won your suit?”
“I won, yes.” He shrugged his shoulders. “But what, Madame? A bare
title, an empty rent-roll.”
“For shame!” she answered. “But I suppose that this is your English
phlegm. Is it not a thing to be proud of—an old title? That which money
cannot buy and the wisest would fain wear? M. Guizot, what would he not
give to be Chien de Race? Your Peel, also?”
“And your Thiers?” he returned, with a sly glance at the little man in
the shining glasses.
“He, too! But he has the passion of humanity, which is a title in
itself. Whereas you English, turning in your unending circle, one out,
one in, one in, one out, are but playing a game—marking time! You have
not a desire to go forward!”
“Surely, Princess, you forget our Reform Bill, scarce ten years old.”
“Which bought off your cotton lords and your fat bourgeois, and left
the people without leaders and more helpless than before. No, my lord,
if your Russell—Lord John, do you call him?—had one jot of M. Thiers’
enthusiasm! Or your Peel—but I look for nothing there!”
He shrugged his shoulders. “I admit,” he said, “that M. Thiers has an
enthusiasm beyond the ordinary.”
“You do? Wonderful!”
“But,” with a smile, “it is, I fancy, an enthusiasm of which the object
is—M. Thiers!”
“Ah!” she cried, fanning herself more quickly. “Now there spoke not Mr.
Audley, the attaché—he had not been so imprudent! But—how do you call
yourself now?”
“On days of ceremony,” he replied, “Lord Audley of Beaudelays.”
“There spoke my lord, unattached! Oh, you English, you have no
enthusiasm. You have only traditions. Poor were Poland if her fate hung
on you!”
“There are still bright spots,” he said slyly. And his glance returned
to the little statesman in spectacles on whom the Princess rested the
hopes of Poland.
“No!” she cried vividly. “Don’t say it again or I shall be displeased.
Turn your eyes elsewhere. There is one here about whom I wish to
consult you. Do you see the tall girl in black who is engaged with the
miniatures?”
“I saw her some time ago.”
“I suppose so. You are a man. I dare say you would call her handsome?”
“I think it possible, were she not in this company. What of her,
Princess?”
“Do you notice anything beyond her looks?”
“The picture is plain—for the frame in which I see her. Is she one of
the staff of your school?”
“Yes, but with an air——”
“Certainly—an air!” He nodded.
“Well, she is a countrywoman of yours and has a history. Her father, a
journalist, artist, no matter what, came to live in Paris years ago. He
went down, down, always down; six months ago he died. There was enough
to bury him, no more. She says, I don’t know”—the Princess indicated
doubt with a movement of her fan—“that she wrote to friends in England.
Perhaps she did not write; how do I know? She was at the last sou, the
street before her, a hag of a concierge behind, and withal—as you see
her.”
“Not wearing that dress, I presume?” he said with a faint smile.
“No. She had passed everything to the Mont de Piété; she had what she
stood up in—yet herself! Then a Polish family on the floor below, to
whom my daughter carried alms, told Cécile of her. They pitied her,
spoke well of her, she had done—no matter what for them—perhaps
nothing. Probably nothing. But Cécile ascended, saw her, became
enamoured, _enragée!_ You know Cécile—for her all that wears feathers
is of the angels! Nothing would do but she must bring her here and set
her to teach English to the daughters during her own absence.”
“The Princess is away?”
“For four weeks. But in three days she returns, and you see where I am.
How do I know who this is? She may be this, or that. If she were
French, if she were Polish, I should know! But she is English and of a
calm, a reticence—ah!”
“And of a pride too,” he replied thoughtfully, “if I mistake not. Yet
it is a good face, Princess.”
She fluttered her fan. “It is a handsome one. For a man that is the
same.”
“With all this you permit her to appear?”
“To be of use. And a little that she may be seen by some English
friend, who may tell me.”
“Shall I talk to her?”
“If you will be so good. Learn, if you please, what she is.”
“Your wishes are law,” he rejoined. “Will you present me?”
“It is not necessary,” the Princess answered. She beckoned to a stout
gentleman who wore whiskers trimmed à la mode du Roi, and had laurel
leaves on his coat collar. “A thousand thanks.”
He lingered a moment to take part in the Princess’s reception of the
Academician. Then he joined a group about old Prince Adam Czartoriski,
who was describing a recent visit to Cracow, that last morsel of free
Poland, soon to pass into the maw of Austria. A little apart, the girl
in black bent over the case of miniatures, comparing some with a list,
and polishing others with a square of silk. Presently he found himself
beside her. Their eyes met.
“I am told,” he said, bowing, “that you are my countrywoman. The
Princess thought that I might be of use to you.”
The girl had read his errand before he spoke and a shade flitted across
her face. She knew, only too well, that her hold on this rock of safety
to which chance had lifted her—out of a gulf of peril and misery of
which she trembled to think—was of the slightest. Early, almost from
the first, she had discovered that the Princess’s benevolence found
vent rather in schemes for the good of many than in tenderness for one.
But hitherto she had relied on the daughter’s affection, and a little
on her own usefulness. Then, too, she was young and hopeful, and the
depths from which she had escaped were such that she could not believe
that Providence would return her to them.
But she was quick-witted, and his opening frightened her. She guessed
at once that she was not to be allowed to await Cécile’s return, that
her fate hung on what this Englishman, so big and bland and forceful,
reported of her.
She braced herself to meet the danger. “I am obliged to the Princess,”
she said. “But my ties with England are slight. I came to France with
my father when I was ten years old.”
“I think you lost him recently?” He found his task less easy than it
should have been.
“He died six months ago,” she replied, regarding him gravely. “His
illness left me without means. I was penniless, when the young Princess
befriended me and gave me a respite here. I am no part of this,” with a
glance at the salon and the groups about them. “I teach upstairs. I am
thankful for the privilege of doing so.”
“The Princess told me as much,” he said frankly. “She thought that,
being English, I might advise you better than she could; that possibly
I might put you in touch with your relations?”
She shook her head.
“Or your friends? You must have friends?”
“Doubtless my father had—once,” she said in a low voice. “But as his
means diminished, he saw less and less of those who had known him. For
the last two years I do not think that he saw an Englishman at home.
Before that time I was in a convent school, and I do not know.”
“You are a Roman Catholic, then?”
“No. And for that reason—and for another, that my account was not
paid”—her color rose painfully to her face—“I could not apply to the
Sisters. I am very frank,” she added, her lip trembling.
“And I encroach,” he answered, bowing. “Forgive me! Your father was an
artist, I believe?”
“He drew for an Atelier de Porcelaine—for the journals when he could.
But he was not very successful,” she continued reluctantly. “The china
factory which had employed him since he came to Paris, failed. When I
returned from school he was alone and poor, living in the little street
in the Quartier, where he died.”
“But forgive me, you must have some relations in England?”
“Only one of whom I know,” she replied. “My father’s brother. My father
had quarrelled with him—bitterly, I fear; but when he was dying he bade
me write to my uncle and tell him how we were placed. I did so. No
answer came. Then after my father’s death I wrote again. I told my
uncle that I was alone, that I was without money, that in a short time
I should be homeless, that if I could return to England I could live by
teaching French. He did not reply. I could do no more.”
“That was outrageous,” he answered, flushing darkly. Though well under
thirty he was a tall man and portly, with one of those large faces that
easily become injected. “Do you know—is your uncle also in narrow
circumstances?”
“I know no more than his name,” she said. “My father never spoke of
him. They had quarrelled. Indeed, my father spoke little of his past.”
“But when you did not hear from your uncle, did you not tell your
father?”
“It could do no good,” she said. “And he was dying.”
He was not sentimental, this big man, whose entrance into a room
carried with it a sense of power. Nor was he one to be lightly moved,
but her simplicity and the picture her words drew for him of the
daughter and the dying man touched him. Already his mind was made up
that the Czartoriski should not turn her adrift for lack of a word.
Aloud, “The Princess did not tell me your name,” he said. “May I know
it?”
“Audley,” she said. “Mary Audley.”
He stared at her. She supposed that he had not caught the name. She
repeated it.
“Audley? Do you really mean that?”
“Why not?” she asked, surprised in her turn. “Is it so uncommon a
name?”
“No,” he replied slowly. “No, but it is a coincidence. The Princess did
not tell me that your name was Audley.”
The girl shook her head. “I doubt if she knows,” she said. “To her I am
only ‘the English girl.’”
“And your father was an artist, resident in Paris? And his name?”
“Peter Audley.”
He nodded. “Peter Audley,” he repeated. His eyes looked through her at
something far away. His lips were more firmly set. His face was grave.
“Peter Audley,” he repeated softly. “An artist resident in Paris!”
“But did you know him?” she cried.
He brought his thoughts and his eyes back to her. “No, I did not know
him,” he said. “But I have heard of him.” And again it was plain that
his thoughts took wing. “John Audley’s brother, the artist!” he
muttered.
In her impatience she could have taken him by the sleeve and shaken
him. “Then you do know John Audley?” she said. “My uncle?”
Again he brought himself back with an effort. “A thousand pardons!” he
said. “You see the Princess did not tell me that you were an Audley.
Yes, I know John Audley—of the Gatehouse. I suppose it was to him you
wrote?”
“Yes.”
“And he did not reply?”
She nodded.
He laughed, as at something whimsical. It was not a kindly laugh, it
jarred a little on his listener. But the next moment his face softened,
he smiled at her, and the smile of such a man had its importance, for
in repose his eyes were hard. It was clear to her that he was a man of
position, that he belonged of right to this keen polished world at
which she was stealing a glance. His air was distinguished, and his
dress, though quiet, struck the last note of fashion.
“But I am keeping you in suspense,” he said. “I must tell you, Miss
Audley, why it surprised me to learn your name. Because I, too, am an
Audley.”
“You!” she cried.
“Yes, I,” he replied. “What is more, I am akin to you. The kinship is
remote, but it happens that your father’s name, in its place in a
pedigree, has been familiar to me of late, and I could set down the
precise degree of cousinship in which you stand to me. I think your
father was my fourth cousin.”
She colored charmingly. “Is it possible?” she exclaimed.
“It is a fact, proved indeed, recently, in a court of law,” he answered
lightly. “Perhaps it is as well that we have that warrant for a
conversation which I can see that the Princess thinks long. After this
she will expect to hear the whole of your history.”
“I fear that she may be displeased,” the girl said, wincing a little.
“You have been very kind——”
“Who should be kind,” he replied, “if not the head of your family? But
have no fear, I will deal with the Princess. I shall be able to satisfy
her, I have no doubt.”
“And you”—she looked at him with appeal in her eyes—“will you be good
enough to tell me who you are?”
“I am Lord Audley. To distinguish me from another of the same name, I
am called Audley of Beaudelays.”
“Of Beaudelays?” she repeated. He thought her face, her whole bearing,
singularly composed in view of his announcement. “Beaudelays?” she
repeated thoughtfully. “I have heard the name more than once. Perhaps
from my father.”
“It were odd if you had not,” he said. “It is the name of my house, and
your uncle, John Audley, lives within a mile of it.”
“Oh,” she said. The name of the uncle who had ignored her appeals fell
on her like a cold douche.
“I will not say more now,” Lord Audley continued. “But you shall hear
from me. To—morrow I quit Paris for three or four days, but when I
return have no fear. You may leave the matter in my hands in full
confidence that I shall not fail—my cousin.”
He held out his hand and she laid hers in it. She looked him frankly in
the face. “Thank you,” she said. “I little thought when I descended
this evening that I should meet a kinsman.”
“And a friend,” he answered, holding her hand a little longer than was
needful.
“And a friend,” she repeated. “But there—I must go now. I should have
disappeared ten minutes ago. This is my way.” She inclined her head,
and turning from him she pushed open a small door masked by a picture.
She passed at once into a dark corridor, and threading its windings
gained the great staircase.
As she flitted upwards from floor to floor, skirting a long procession
of shadowy forms, and now ogled by a Leda whose only veil was the dusk,
now threatened by the tusks of the great boar at bay, she was not
conscious of thought or surprise. It was not until she had lighted her
taper outside the dormitory door, and, passing between the rows of
sleeping children, had gained her screened corner, that she found it
possible to think. Then she set the light in her tiny
washing-basin—such was the rule—and seated herself on her bed. For some
minutes she stared before her, motionless and unwinking, her hands
clasped about her knees, her mind at work.
Was it true, or a dream? Had this really happened to her since she had
viewed herself in the blurred mirror, had set a curl right and,
satisfied, had turned to go down? The danger and the delivery from it,
the fear and the friend in need? Or was it a Cinderella’s treat, which
no fairy godmother would recall to her, with which no lost slipper
would connect her? She could almost believe this. For no Cinderella, in
the ashes of the hearth, could have seemed more remote from the gay
ball-room than she crouching on her thin mattress, with the breathing
of the children in her ears, from the luxury of the famous salon.
Or, if it was true, if it had happened, would anything come of it?
Would Lord Audley remember her? Or would he think no more of her,
ignoring to-morrow the poor relation whom it had been the whim of the
moment to own? That would be cruel! That would be base! But if Mary had
fallen in with some good people since her father’s death, she had also
met many callous, and a few cruel people. He might be one. And then,
how strange it was that her father had never named this great kinsman,
never referred to him, never even, when dying, disclosed his name!
The light wavered in the draught that stole through the bald, undraped
window. A child whimpered in its sleep, awoke, began to sob. It was the
youngest of the daughters of Poland. The girl rose, and going on
tip-toe to the child, bent over it, kissed it, warmed it in her bosom,
soothed it. Presently the little waif slept again, and Mary Audley
began to make ready for bed.
But so much turned for her on what had happened, so much hung in the
balance, that it was not unnatural that as she let down her hair and
plaited it in two long tails for the night, she should see her new
kinsman’s face in the mirror. Nor strange that as she lay sleepless and
thought-ridden in her bed the same face should present itself anew
relieved against the background of darkness.