I don't know what I should have done if it had not fallen to my lot to
meet with a girl like Clara Fitzacre, who displayed quite a friendly
feeling towards me, making me her confidante to such an extent that I
soon found out that she was most desperately--there, I cannot say what,
but that a sympathy existed between her and the Italian master, Signor
Pazzoletto.
"Such a divinely handsome man, dear," said Clara one night, as we lay
talking in bed, with the moon streaming her rays like a silver cascade
through the window; while Patty Smith played an accompaniment upon her
dreadful pug-nose. And then, of course, I wanted to hear all; but I
fancy Clara thought Patty was only pretending to be asleep, for she said
no more that night, but the next day during lessons she asked me to walk
with her in the garden directly they were over, and of course I did,
when she began again,--
"Such a divinely handsome man, dear! Dark complexion and aquiline
features. He is a count by rights, only he has exiled himself from
Italy on account of internal troubles."
I did not believe it a bit, for I thought it more likely that he was
some poor foreigner whom Mrs Blunt had managed to engage cheaply; so
when Clara spoke of internal troubles, I said, spitefully,--"Ah, that's
what mamma talks about when she has the spasms and wants papa to get her
the brandy. Was the Signor a smuggler, and had the troubles anything to
do with brandy?"
"Oh, no, dear," said Clara, innocently, "it was something about
politics; but you should hear him sing `_Il balen_' and `_Ah, che la
morte_'. It quite brings the tears into my eyes. But I am getting on
with my Italian so famously."
"So it seems," I said, maliciously; "but does he know that you call him
your Italian?"
"Now, don't be such a wicked old quiz," said Clara. "You know what I
mean--my Italian lessons. We have nearly gone through `_I Miei
Prigioni_', and it does seem so romantic. You might almost fancy he was
Silvio Pellico himself. I hope you will like him."
"No, you don't," I said, mockingly. "I'm sure I do," said Clara; "I
said _like_, didn't I?"
I was about to reply with some sharp saying, but just then I began
thinking about the Reverend Theodore Saint Purre and his sad, patient
face, and that seemed to stop me.
"But I know whom you will like," said Clara. "Just stop till some one
comes--you'll see."
"And who may that be, you little goose?" I cried, contemptuously.
"Monsieur Achille de Tiraille, young ladies," squeaked Miss Furness. "I
hope the exercises are ready."
Clara looked at me with her handsome eyes twinkling, and then we hurried
in, or rather Clara hurried me in; and we went into the classroom.
Almost directly after, the French master was introduced by Miss Sloman,
who frowned at me, and motioned to me to remain standing. I had risen
when he entered, and then resumed my seat; for I believe Miss Sloman
took a dislike to me from the first, because I laughed upon the day when
she overset the little table while performing her act of deportment.
But I thought no more of Miss Sloman just then, for I knew that Clara's
eyes were upon me, and I could feel the hot blood flushing up in my
cheeks and tingling in my forehead; while I knew too--nay, I could feel,
that another pair of eyes were upon me, eyes that I had seen in the
railway carriage, at the station, in my dreams; and I quite shivered as
Miss Sloman led me up to the front of a chair where some one was
sitting, and I heard her cracked-bell voice say,--
"The new pupil, Monsieur Achille: Miss Bozerne."
I could have bitten my lips with anger for being so startled and taken
aback before the dark foreign gentleman of whom I have before spoken.
Oh, me! sinner that I am, I cannot tell much about that dreadful
afternoon. I have only some recollection of stumbling through a page of
Telemaque in a most abominable manner, so badly that I could have
cried--I, too, who would not condescend to make use of Mr Moy Thomas as
a translator, but read and revelled in "_Les Miserables_" and doated on
that Don Juan of a Gilliat in "_Les Travailleurs de Mer_" though I never
could quite understand how he could sit still and be drowned, for the
water always seems to pop you up so when you're bathing; but, then,
perhaps it is different when one is going to drown oneself, and in spite
of the horrors which followed I never quite made up my mind to do that.
There I was, all through that lesson--I, with my pure French accent and
fluent speech, condemned to go on blundering through a page of poor old
Telemaque, after having almost worshipped that dear old Dumas, and
fallen in love with Bussy, and Chicot, and Athos, and Porthos, and
Aramis, and D'Artagnan, and I don't know how many more--but stop; let me
see. No, I did not like Porthos of the big baldric, for he was a great
booby; but as for Chicot--there, I must consider. I can't help it; I
wandered then--I wandered all the time I was at Mrs Blunt's, wandered
from duty and everything. But was I not prisoned like a poor dove, and
was it not likely that I should beat my breast against the bars in my
efforts to escape? Ah, well! I am safe at home once more, writing and
revelling in tears--patient, penitent, and at peace; but as I recall
that afternoon, it seems one wild vision of burning eyes, till I was
walking in the garden with Clara and that stupid Patty Smith.
"Don't be afraid to talk," whispered Clara, who saw how _distraite_ I
was; "she's only a child, though she is so big."