“Come, come, Cristina, the young girl is hungry! It will not take you a
moment to boil an egg.”
“The fire is out.”
“That does not matter; you may use my little English stove—it will not
take many drops of wood spirit to boil an egg.”
And then Lily heard the Countess add in a low, meaning tone: “Remember
that we are receiving with her a hundred and twenty-five francs a week.
If she is not satisfied she will go. Also, as the Count said only the
other day, she may be useful to us in other ways.”
The unwilling listener felt desperately uncomfortable. She began moving
towards the door, but just at that moment the Countess, turning, saw
that Lily must have overheard what had been said. Her already dusky face
darkened. She looked excessively annoyed—a vindictive look came into her
oddly coloured eyes. She evidently thought the English girl had been
eavesdropping. But with an obvious effort she recovered her composure.
She motioned Lily farther into the darkened room and shut the door—this
time making sure that it _was_ shut.
“I desire to tell you one or two things,” she said slowly. “You are
going to be a member of our household for, I hope, a long time, dear
child—so it is better to cross the _t’s_ and to dot the _i’s_, as they
say in France. Cristina is not only an old and faithful servant—she was
my husband’s foster-sister. You know what that means?”
Lily nodded.
“Thus we do not really regard her as a servant,” went on the Countess.
“We are both very fond of her. She is an excellent creature, but she is
not very amiable. I had to tell her that you were coming as a paying
guest”—the Countess made a slight grimace. “Cristina is an old woman,
and I hope you will not be offended with me when I say that I shall be
glad if you will help a little in the work of the house.”
“I shall be delighted to do anything I can, Aunt Cosy,” said Lily
eagerly. “A home was started in Epsom for the Belgian refugees, and the
ladies of the place took it in turns to go in and do the housework.”
“You have relieved my mind! As I said just now to Cristina, I’m sure you
will make yourself useful to us, as a dear, cherished little daughter
might do. How sorry the Count will be that he was not at home to welcome
you!”
Lily suddenly felt happier. It was nice of Aunt Cosy to have spoken to
her so frankly.
“Do let me go into the kitchen and boil an egg for myself,” she
exclaimed.
“Very well,” smiled the Countess. She preceded the girl till they came
to a narrow passage, cut like a slit in the wall, to the right of the
corridor. It led into the queerest little kitchen Lily had ever seen,
and was not much bigger than an English bathroom. The stove—if you could
call it a stove—was one for the exclusive use of charcoal. What light
there was came from a far from clean skylight. On the distempered green
walls hung various mysterious-looking copper pots and pans, the
quaintest being a little roasting-machine in which could be cooked a
tiny joint, or chicken. On the table was an old-fashioned methylated
spirit lamp, on which there was now poised an enamelled saucepan full of
water in which was an egg.
“Unfortunately La Solitude was built against the side of the mountain,”
said the Countess, “so both the kitchen and the dining-room are lit from
the sky. But from the front of the house we enjoy a view into three
countries! We are not many yards from the frontier—the frontier which
divides Monaco from France; and straight over the sea is Corsica, the
cradle of the great Napoleon! To the left, of course, is Italy, my
beloved country, though I count myself English, as you know. And now,”
she concluded, “I will leave you in the good care of our excellent
Cristina. I have some work to finish before to-morrow.”
When the Countess had gone the old servant laid a clean, unbleached
napkin across the end of the kitchen table. She put out a plate, an
egg-cup, salt and pepper, and half a long loaf. Then she turned, with a
look of apology, to Lily.
“The dining-room is already prepared for dinner,” she said, in her soft,
refined voice. “I fear I must ask you, Mademoiselle, to eat your egg
here.”
“Of course I will,” exclaimed Lily. “And, Cristina, I hope you will
allow me to help you a little in the housework?”
A curious look—was it of surprise or gratitude?—perhaps something of
both—quivered for a moment over Cristina’s pale face. “You are very
good,” she said quietly. “There is a good deal of work sometimes—when we
have visitors.”
The water was now boiling, and as she spoke she took the egg out of the
saucepan, and put it deftly into the egg-cup. And then, after Lily had
sat down, the old woman stood and watched her eat. Had not the girl been
so very hungry she would have felt a little shy and awkward under that
silent, tense scrutiny.
Cristina suddenly observed: “I suppose Mademoiselle is a Protestant?”
Lily looked up. “Yes, of course I am.”
A sad look came over Cristina’s face. “Mademoiselle looks so good, so
pure,” she murmured. “I thought perhaps that Mademoiselle was thinking
of being a nun.”
“Oh, no, indeed I’m not!” Lily laughed outright, for the first time in
this strange house.
“I myself,” said Cristina slowly, “at one time hoped to be a nun.” And
then, clasping her hands, and with an emotion which transformed her
quietude into something which greatly startled Lily, so violent and
unexpected was it, her pale face became convulsed. “The devil prevented
my becoming a nun. But for the devil I should now be a good and perhaps
even a holy woman!”
Her breast heaved—she seemed extraordinarily moved and distressed.
Lily jumped up—not perhaps quite so surprised as she would have been but
for some of her experiences with the more emotional Belgians. “I’m quite
sure that you are a very good woman,” she said kindly.
But Cristina shook her head with an air of ineffable sadness and
distress.
The kitchen door opened suddenly and Lily was astounded to see the
change that came over the old waiting woman. She became coldly rigid;
her look of agitation disappeared as if by magic.
She turned round: “Madame la Comtesse?” she said inquiringly, almost
forbiddingly.
“Only to say, Cristina, that I’m going down the hill a little way to try
and meet Monsieur le Comte. He will be loaded, as you know, with all
manner of good things.” The speaker smiled, showing a row of strong,
white teeth. “Will you show Mademoiselle her room?” She turned to Lily.
“And you, dear child? Have you had a nice fresh egg?”
Without waiting for an answer she turned and left the little dark
kitchen.
Cristina waited, listening, and then, when she heard the front door, at
the end of the corridor, close to: “Are you really her relation?” she
asked slowly. “You are not at all like her.”
“No: I’m not really related to the Countess.” Had she been more at home
in French she would have tried to explain the peculiar connection.
Meanwhile a pleased look came over old Cristina’s face. “I thought not!”
she exclaimed.
There was a pause. Lily was telling herself with some amusement that,
however fond the Countess might be of Cristina, Cristina was not over
fond of the Countess. And yet how very nicely Aunt Cosy had spoken of
the old woman!
Suddenly the huge cat, which had been the first living thing seen by
Lily Fairfield at La Solitude, came noiselessly into the kitchen.
“Here is Mimi,” exclaimed Cristina. “He is so faithful, so intelligent!
He follows me about like a dog.” She stooped and picked up Mimi. “Say
good-day to Mademoiselle!” she said caressingly, but, as Lily drew near,
the cat suddenly spat and swore.
Cristina put the creature down. “He is jealous,” she said. “He perceives
that I am going to love Mademoiselle.” And sure enough, Mimi walked away
with offended dignity.
“Before we go upstairs would Mademoiselle like to see the dining-room?”
asked the old woman.
And then the girl had another of the surprises which seemed to be always
meeting her in this curious French house—for she thought of Monaco as
being part of France; which of course it is not. Turning the key in a
door at the end of the corridor, Cristina stepped aside while Lily
walked through into what struck her as a gloomy, and yet, in its way, a
splendid room, and she realised suddenly that it was the windowless
building she had seen from the lawn.
Through a circular skylight there fell a softened light on the beautiful
old tapestry, moth-eaten in places, with which the walls were hung; and
in the centre of the room was a round table, now spread with a lace
tablecloth. It was set for three, a lace d’oyley marking each place, as
did also three sets of exquisite old cut-glass goblets of varying sizes.
In the middle of the table was a gold vase containing a bunch of
brilliant coloured blossoms, such as may be bought anywhere along the
Riviera for a few pence. They made a charming note of colour in the
large room, and gave an air of festivity to the well-arranged
dining-table.
The only other furniture in the apartment was a set of six
tapestry-covered chairs, and a yellow marble sideboard with gilt legs.
On the sideboard were now set out three green and gold dessert plates,
with Venetian glass finger-bowls on them, and two graceful,
delicately-painted dessert dishes were placed ready for fruit.
Lily was rather surprised to see that there were no fewer than six
cut-glass and coloured decanters filled with various wines and liqueurs,
standing in a row behind the fruit plates.
Cristina stood by, looking at her expectantly.
“What beautiful tapestries, and—and what a lovely tablecloth,” said Lily
at last.
She felt bewildered. She had never seen anything quite like this before.
It was the sort of dining-table that she would have expected to see laid
out in a palace. “The glasses must be very valuable,” she said
admiringly. “I once saw a much less nice set, very like these, in a
famous collection of cut glass.”
“I suppose I must now lay a fourth place,” said Cristina slowly. And
then she added: “Mademoiselle was not expected till the day after
to-morrow. Perhaps the Count will put off the visitor.”
“Who is coming to dinner—a lady or a gentleman?” asked Lily pleasantly.
Cristina hesitated a moment—and then, “A gentleman,” she answered.
The old woman led the English girl back into the corridor. A short,
ladder-like staircase led to the upper floor of the villa. The storey
above was divided like that below, by a corridor which ran right down
the middle of the house.
Cristina took up the bunch of keys which hung at her girdle. “I sleep
there,” she said, pointing to the first door to the right, “and
Mademoiselle here.”
She unlocked the first door to their left, and ushered Lily into a room
which impressed the girl as curiously dark and gloomy. But she soon saw
the reason for that. The one window gave on to a stretch of deep,
barren, heath-covered hill. Only by craning her head right out of the
window could she see the sky. Below was a small, oblong yard, bounded by
an outhouse.
Within the room, an old-fashioned mahogany bed of the low, curved Empire
shape stood against the left wall. By the tiny fireplace was a shabby
armchair upholstered in some kind of discoloured green material. There
was no hanging cupboard; only a row of wooden pegs on the door. A pair
of splendid brocaded silk and velvet curtains, looped up by the window,
gave a touch of incongruous grandeur.
The room looked very unhomelike, and Lily suddenly felt sad and
dispirited. “I think I will try and get a little sleep, so will you
kindly call me, Cristina, when you think I ought to get up?” She
hesitated a moment. “Does Aunt Cosy have afternoon tea?” she asked.
“Only when visitors are expected.” And then Cristina added, “We have no
tea in the house now.”
“I have brought a little,” said Lily quickly; “about two pounds.”
Cristina went over to the window and drew the heavy curtains together,
and then she slipped noiselessly from the room.