It was no use appealing to the brewer. He said he had nothing to do
with it; and when it was pointed out to him that the chaste uniformity
of the Walk was ruined, he impertinently suggested that the entire Walk
might get itself painted all over again, and painted sky-blue.
So the Admiral took his time, determined to give this malapert and
intrusive foreign woman--she had now become a woman--a severe lesson.
A few days later the house was taken possession of by an elderly female
servant--a stout and florid Bretonne, who went about, as Mrs. Poskett
said, looking a figure of fun in her national costume.
Then began such a scrubbing and brushing and washing at Number Four as
the Walk had never seen. The bolder spirits--not the Admiral: he
reserved himself for the enemy-in-chief--Mrs. Poskett, and Mrs.
Brooke-Hoskyn's nurse, made tentative approaches, but were repulsed with
great slaughter: the Bretonne could not speak a word of English. When,
however, she proceeded to tie a rope from the elm--the sacred Elm---to
the Gazebo, to hang rugs across it and beat them to the tune of
"_Malbroucq s'en va-t-en guerre_" sung with immense gusto, Sir Peter was
forced to attack her himself. He had picked up a smattering of French
in the wars, and the Walk lined its window with eager faces to witness
his victory.
Alas, the Bretonne now pretended not to understand the Admiral's French,
and replied to all his remonstrances, commands, and objurgations, with
"Bien, mon vieux!" while she banged more lustily on the rugs and covered
the now apoplectic Admiral with layers of dust.
The Admiral promised his subjects--Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn, I am sorry to say,
indulged in a cynical smile--that the very first hour the Frenchwoman
came into residence--the very first hour, mind you--he would teach her
her place.
The next day the house was ready for her, and the Walk could but shudder
as it looked at it: it had become so un-English. The steps were as
white as snow; the garden was trim and neat; the quiet cream paint was
offensively cheerful; the brass knocker was a poem; the windows gleamed,
positively gleamed, in the sun, and behind them were coquettish lace
curtains. The crowning offence was that every window-sill was loaded
with growing flowers. Mr. Pringle said the house standing in the midst
of its prim neighbours reminded him of a laughing young girl surrounded
by her maiden aunts; and Miss Ruth Pennymint told him he ought to know
better than to say such things in the presence of ladies.
The Admiral himself as this story proceeds, shall tell you in his own
words of the startling effect produced by the arrival of the new
tenants. Suffice it to say that it was totally unexpected, and that the
Walk was forced to readjust its views in every particular. At the point
of time we have now reached, Madame Lachesnais and her daughter,
Marjolaine, were the most popular inhabitants of the Walk, and nobody
had anything but good to say of them.
Wherefore, when, as recorded in the previous chapter, Mr. Pringle held
up a warning hand and said "Madame!" all turned expectantly.
It was quite a little procession that now issued from Number Four.
First came Nanette, the servant, spick and span in her Bretonne dress,
with a cap of dazzling whiteness. On her arm was a great market-basket.
She was followed by Madame herself, a tall and graceful person no longer
in the first bloom of youth, but, in spite of the traces of sorrow on
her face, still beautiful. She was dressed in some quiet, grey
material, for she was still in half-mourning for her late husband; her
delicate throat and hands were set off by exquisite old lace. She moved
with a sort of floating grace, very charming to watch. There was
distinction and well-bred self-possession in every line. Behind her
followed her daughter, Marjolaine, a charming girl of nineteen. There
is no necessity for more particular description. A charming girl of
nineteen is the loveliest thing on earth, and more need not be said.
The Admiral and Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn leaped to their feet as Madame
appeared. Both threw their chests out and assumed their finest company
manner, to such an extent, indeed, that Mrs. Poskett could not repress a
contemptuous sniff.
Madame came graciously towards the group. "Ah! Good afternoon," she
said, in a pleasant voice, with only the slightest trace of a French
accent. "I am going marketing in Chiswick with Nanette. Nanette cannot
speak a word of English, you know." Then she turned to her daughter.
"Marjolaine, you may take your book under the tree, if our friends will
have you." Marjolaine was talking to Mr. Basil Pringle. "It is nearly
time for my singing-lesson, Maman."
"Ah, yes. Mr. Basil, I fear you find her very backward."