“No. My papa is here on business for a little while, and then we are
going to Paris again.”
“Your home is in Paris, then?”
She looked rather puzzled. “I don’t know Paris well,” she observed
apologetically. “We were only there once before, when mama was with
us. It was a nice hotel, I thought, but noisy. This one--the Grand--is
better. Have you been much in Paris?”
“Not since I was at school there. My French was acquired in Paris,” I
added, automatically.
One says that kind of thing so often, to please the parents.
“Mademoiselle aime parler francais, hein?” she enquired, with a little
smile.
Her French was as perfect as her Italian, or her English; and it was
evidently natural to her to speak either language.
“Are you English?” I could not refrain from asking her.
“My papa is Italian--mama was half English, and half French.”
Was? Then her mother must be dead. That would account for the empty
limousine, and the strange independence of the child.
“Mama is in New York, now, we think,” she remarked. “I am to join her
when I am ten; that was arranged for, in the deed of separation.”
“Separation?” said I.
“There is no divorce in Italy,” said the little creature, shrugging her
shoulders. “Papa is a Catholic, though not, of course _pratiquant_.
They have been separated since I was seven.”
“Then who--who----” I wanted to ask who looked after her, but such a
form of words seemed singularly inappropriate. “Who looks after your
papa’s house?” I found at last.
“We are in hotels, most of the time, papa and I, and my maid, Carlotta,
but in the holidays--_les grandes vacances_--we go to the country
somewhere--_villegiatura_--and there is a lady then, always.”
Her grave eyes looked at me. “A different one,” she explained, “each
time.”
Her very complete understanding of the status held by the “ladies” was
implicit in her manner, but that struck me less poignantly than did her
philosophical acceptance of all that they stood for.
The grey limousine came into sight, and she made an amiable little sign
to the chauffeur.
“I must go now. It doesn’t _do_ to keep the _auto_ waiting.”
In her grave little voice, was all the circumspection of the child that
has learnt to fend for itself, that knows by experience that it will
only be tolerated so long as it gives no trouble, runs counter to no
prejudices, is guilty of no indiscretions.
“It has been so pleasant to talk to someone English. Good-bye Miss----?”
Her little pause was exactly that of a grown-up person, before an
unknown or unremembered name. And what precocity of discernment had
told her that “Miss” was the suitable prefix?
“Miss Arbell,” said I. “Tell me your name before you go.”
“Laura di san Marzano.”
She pronounced Laura in the Italian way--_Lah-o-ra_.
When I held out my hand, she kissed it, as Italian children do, and
after she had climbed to the driving-seat, she waved to me, before
turning the grey car down the hill.
I looked for her every morning after that, but she never came to the
Borghese Gardens again.