GOOD-BYE TO PARIS.
The days in Paris flew past far too quickly for Barbara, who enjoyed
everything to the full.
As she came to know her aunt better, and got accustomed to her dry
manner and rather exact ways, she found her to be a really good
companion, not altogether lacking in humour, and having untiring energy
in sight-seeing and a keen sympathy with Barbara's delight in what was
new.
Perhaps Miss Britton, too, was gaining more pleasure from the trip than
she had expected, for up till now she had seen her niece only as one a
little sobered by responsibility and the constraint of her own
presence. Whatever the cause, it was certain that during the past
fortnight Miss Britton had felt the days of her youth nearer her than
for some time, and it was with mutual regret that they reached the last
day of their stay in Paris.
They were sitting together on the balcony, with the bees very busy in
the lilac-bush near them, and the doves murmuring to each other at the
end of the garden. Barbara was reading a guide-book on Brittany, and
Miss Britton, with her knitting in her hands, was listening to bits the
girl read aloud, and watching a little frown grow between the eyebrows.
It was curious how the frown between the dark brows reminded her of her
dead brother; and after a moment she laid down her knitting.
[Illustration: "Barbara was reading a guide book on Brittany."]
"You may think it a little unkind, Barbara," she began, "that I am not
coming with you to see what kind of place it is to which you are going,
but I think it is good for a girl to learn to be independent and
self-reliant. I made careful inquiries, and the people seem to be very
good at teaching French--they used to live in Paris--and they are quite
respectable. Of course, you may not find everything just as you like
it, and if it is really unpleasant, you can write me, and I shall
arrange for you to return here. But Paris would be more distracting
for you to live in, and in a week or two far too hot to be pleasant.
"Besides, I should like you really to _study_ the language, so that you
may profit by your stay in France, as well as enjoy it. If I stayed
with you you would never talk French all the time." She stopped a
moment, and took a stitch or two in her knitting, then added in a tone
quite different from her usual quick, precise way, "Your father was a
splendidly straight, strong man--in body and mind. Try to be like him
in every way. He would have wished his eldest daughter to be sensible
and courageous."
Barbara flushed with pleasure at the praise of her father. She had
never heard her aunt mention him before, and she leaned forward
eagerly, "Thank you, Aunt Anne--I want to be like him."
She would gladly have kissed her, but the family habit of reserve was
strong upon her.
"Let me see," continued her aunt, "can you ride?"
Barbara laughed.
"I used to ride Topsy--the Shetland, you know--long ago, but father
sold him."
Her eyes followed her aunt's across the garden and the end of the
street, to the distant glimpse of the Bois de Boulogne, where riders
passed at frequent intervals, and her eyes glowed. "Doesn't it look
jolly?" she said. "I used to love it."
Aunt Anne nodded.
"I used to ride in my youth, and your father rode beautifully before he
was married, and when he could afford to keep a horse. He would like
you to have done so too, I think. If there is any place where you can
learn in St. Servan, you may. It will be a good change from your
studies."
"Oh, aunt!" and this time reserve was thrown to the winds, and Barbara
most heartily embraced her. "Oh, how perfectly splendid of you! It
has always been my dream to ride properly, but I never, never thought
it would come true."
"Dreams do not often," Miss Britton returned, with a scarcely audible
sigh; then she gathered up her soft white wool. "There is the first
bell, child, and we have not changed for dinner. Come, be quick."
The next morning a heavily-laden cab passed from the Rue St. Sulpice
through the gates into the city. Miss Britton, finding that a friend
of the Belvoirs was going almost the whole way to St. Servan, had
arranged for Barbara to go under her care. But it was with very
regretful eyes that the girl watched the train, bearing her aunt away,
leave the station, and she was rather a silent traveller when, later in
the morning, she was herself _en route_ for St. Servan.
Not so her companion, however, a most talkative personage, who was
hardly quiet five minutes consecutively. She poured forth all sorts of
confidences about her family and friends, and seemed quite satisfied if
Barbara merely nodded and murmured, "_Comme c'est interessant!_" though
she did not understand nearly all her companion said. The latter
pointed out places of interest in passing, and finally, with an
effusive good-bye, got out at the station before St. Servan.
As the train neared its destination, Barbara looked anxiously to see
what the town was like, and her disappointment was great at the first
glimpse of the place. When the family had looked up the Encyclopaedia
for a description of St. Servan, it seemed to be that of a small,
old-fashioned place, and Barbara had pictured it little more than a
village with a picturesque beach. Instead of that, she saw many
houses, some tall chimneys, and quays with ships lying alongside. It
would have cheered her had she known that the station was really a
considerable distance from the town, and in the ugliest part of it; but
that she did not find out till later.
Outside the station were many vociferous cab-drivers offering to take
her anywhere she liked, and, choosing the one whose horse seemed best
cared for, she inquired if he knew where the house of Mademoiselle
Loiré, Rue Calvados, was. Grinning broadly he bade her step in, and
presently they were rolling and bumping along rough cobble-stoned
streets. Barbara had further imagined, from the description of the
house that Mademoiselle Loiré had sent them, that it was a villa
standing by itself, and was rather surprised when the _fiacre_, after
climbing a very steep street, stopped at a door and deposited herself
and her trunks before it. Almost before she rang the bell she heard
hurried steps, and the door was opened by some one whom she imagined
might be the housekeeper.
"Is Mademoiselle Loiré in?" she inquired of the thin and severe-looking
woman with hair parted tightly in the middle.
"I am Mademoiselle Loiré," she replied stiffly in French, "and you, I
suppose, are Miss Britton! I am sorry there was no one at the station
to meet you, but we did not expect you so soon."
"Did you not get my post-card?" Barbara asked.
"I could not possibly do that," Mademoiselle Loiré returned
reprovingly; "it was posted in Paris far too late for _that_. However,
perhaps you will now come into the _salon_," and Barbara followed
meekly into a room looking out upon the garden, and very full of all
kinds of things. She had hardly got in before she heard a bustle on
the stairs, which was followed by the entrance of Mademoiselle Thérèse
Loiré. Her face was not so long nor her hair so tightly drawn back as
her sister's, and she came forward with a rush, smiling broadly, but,
somehow, Barbara felt she would like the prim sister better.
After asking many questions about the journey they took her to her
room, and Barbara's heart sank a little. The house seemed dark and
cold after that in Neuilly, and her bedroom was paved with red brick,
as was the custom in those parts in old houses.
The dining-room--smelling somewhat of damp--was a long, low room
leading straight into the garden, and the whole effect was rather
depressing. At supper-time, Barbara was made acquainted with the rest
of the household, which consisted of an adopted niece--a plump girl of
about seventeen, with very red cheeks and a very small waist--and two
boys about twelve, who were boarding with the Loirés so that they might
go to the Lycée[1] in the town. After supper, Mademoiselle Thérèse
explained that they usually went for a walk with the widower and his
children who lived next door.
"Poor things!" she said, "they knew nobody when they came to the town,
and a widower in France is so shut off from companionship that we
thought we must be kind to them. They have not a woman in the house
except a charer, who comes in the first thing in the morning."
Barbara, with a chuckle over the "charer," went to put on her hat, and
on coming into the dining-room again, found the widower and his sons
already there. Something in the shape of the back of the elder man
seemed familiar to her, and on his turning round to greet her, she
recognised her little friend of the train on their first arrival in
France. The recognition was mutual, and before she had time to speak
he rushed forward and poured forth a torrent of French, while
Mademoiselle Thérèse clamoured for an explanation, which he finally
gave her.
At last he had to stop for want of breath, and Barbara had time to look
at his sons--boys of twelve and sixteen--who seemed a great care to
him. All the three, father and sons, wore cloaks with hoods to them,
which they called _capucines_, and as there was very little difference
in their heights, they made rather a quaint trio. Barbara was glad to
see him again, however, for it seemed to bring her aunt nearer.
It amused her considerably to notice how Mademoiselle Thérèse flew from
one party to another, during the whole of the walk, evidently feeling
that she was the chaperon of each individual. She started out beside
the widower, but soon interrupted his conversation by dashing off to
give a word of warning to the boys, and what was supposed to be a word
of encouragement to Barbara, who was walking with Marie, the niece, and
the widower's eldest son.
It did not make much difference to them, for Jean and Marie seemed to
have plenty to say; and after addressing a few careless remarks to
Barbara, to which, perhaps, she did not pay much attention, the latter
heard her say to her companion, "Bah! there is nothing to be made of
her; let us continue;" and she was glad they left her alone that first
evening, for she was not in the mood for talking.
[1] Public school.