THE REVOLT OF TWO.
The days that followed were not as pleasant to Barbara as those she had
spent in Paris, for though St. Malo, just across the river, fascinated
her, she did not care much for St. Servant, and the people did not
prove congenial to her--especially Mademoiselle Thérèse. Though she
seemed to be a clever teacher, Barbara could never be sure that she was
speaking the truth, and in writing home she described her as "rather a
humbug."
"Most English people," she told Barbara shortly after her arrival,
"pronounce French badly because their mouths are shaped differently
from ours, but _yours_, Miss Britton, is just right, therefore your
accent is already wonderfully good."
The girl laughed; the family had never been in the habit of flattering
one another, and she did not appreciate it as much as Mademoiselle
Thérèse had meant she should. Indeed, Barbara wished that the lady
would be less suave to her and more uniform in temper towards the rest
of the household, who sometimes, she shrewdly surmised, suffered
considerably from the younger sister's irascibility.
She had just been in St. Servan ten days, when she had an example of
what she described in a letter home as a "stage quarrel" between the
Mademoiselles Loiré. It began at second _déjeuner_ over some trivial
point in the education of Marie, about whom they were very apt to be
jealous. Their voices gradually rose higher and higher, the remarks
made being anything but complimentary, till finally Mademoiselle Loiré
leaped from her seat, saying she would not stay there to be insulted,
and darted upstairs. Her sister promptly followed, continuing her
argument as she went, but arriving too late at the study door, which
was bolted on the inside by the fugitive.
After various fruitless attempts to make herself heard, Mademoiselle
Thérèse returned to the dining-room, and after a few words of
politeness to Barbara, began once more on the subject of dispute, this
time with Marie, her niece. Apparently the latter took a leaf out of
her aunt's book, for after speaking noisily for a few minutes, she said
_she_ would not be insulted either, and followed her upstairs.
Thereupon Mademoiselle Thérèse's anger knew no bounds, and finding that
Marie had taken refuge beside her aunt in the study, she began to beat
a lively tattoo upon the door.
The two boys, full of curiosity, followed to see what was going on, so
Barbara was left in solitary grandeur, with the ruins of an omelette
before her, and she, "having hunger," went on stolidly with her meal.
She was, in truth, a little disgusted with the whole affair, and was
not sorry to escape to her room before Mademoiselle Thérèse returned.
They were making such a noise below that it was useless to attempt to
do any work, and she was just thinking of going out for a walk, when
her door burst open and in rushed Mademoiselle Loiré, dragging Marie
with her.
"Keep her with you," she panted; "she says she will kill my sister.
Keep her with you while I go down and argue with Thérèse."
Barbara looked sharply at the girl, and it seemed to her that though
she kept murmuring, "I'll kill her I--I'll kill her!" half her anger
was merely assumed, and that there was no necessity for alarm.
"How can they be so silly and theatrical?" she muttered. Then,
glancing round the room to see if there were anything she could give
her, she noticed a bottle of Eno's Fruit Salts, and her eyes twinkled.
It was not exactly the same thing as sal volatile, of course, but at
any rate it would keep the girl quiet, so, pouring out a large
glassful, she bade Marie drink it. The latter obeyed meekly, and for
some time was reduced to silence by want of breath.
"I shall certainly throw myself into the sea," she gasped at last.
"Well, you will certainly be more foolish than I thought you were, if
you do," Barbara returned calmly. "Indeed, I can't think what all this
fuss is about."
Marie stared. "Why, it's to show Aunt Thérèse that she must not
tyrannise over us like that," she said. "I told her I was going to
throw myself into the sea, and as she believes it, it is almost the
same thing."
Barbara shrugged her shoulders.
"A very comfortable way of doing things in cold weather," she remarked;
"but I want a little quiet now, and I think you had better have some
too."
The French girl, somewhat overawed by the other's coolness, relapsed
into silence, and when the sounds downstairs seemed quieter Barbara got
up, and said she was going out for a walk. She found on descending,
however, that the "argument" had only been transferred to
mademoiselle's workroom, where a very funny sight met her eyes when she
looked in.
The poor little widower, whom apparently the two sisters had fetched to
arbitrate between them, stood looking fearfully embarrassed in the
middle of the room, turning apologetically from one to the other. He
never got any further than the first few words, however, as they
brought a torrent of explanation from both his hearers, each giving him
dozens of reasons why the other was wrong.
Marie, who watched for a moment or two, could not help joining in; and
Barbara, very tired of it all, left them to fight it out by themselves,
and went away by the winding streets to the look-out station, where she
sat down and watched the sun shining on the beautiful old walls of St.
Malo. She had only been once in that town with Mademoiselle Thérèse,
but the ramparts and the old houses had fascinated her, and if she had
been allowed, she would have crossed the little moving bridge daily.
When she returned, the house seemed quiet again, for which she was very
thankful, and, mounting to her room, she prepared the French lesson
which was usually given her at that time.
But when Mademoiselle Thérèse came up, she spent most of the time in
bewailing the ingratitude of one's fellow mortals, especially near
relations, and wondering if Marie were really going to drown herself,
and when her sister would unlock her door and come out of the room.
Supper was rather a doleful meal, and immediately after it mademoiselle
went to look for her niece, who had not returned. Barbara laughed a
little scornfully at her fears, and even when she came back with the
news that Marie was not concealed next door, as she had thought,
refused to believe that the girl was not hiding somewhere else.
"But where could she be except next door?" mademoiselle questioned;
"and when I went to ask, Monsieur Dubois was seated with his sons
having supper, and no signs of the truant. He had seen or heard
nothing of her, he said."
Barbara wondered which had been deceived, and whether the widower
himself was deceived or deceiver, but, giving up the attempt to decide
the question, retired to bed, advising mademoiselle to do the same,
feeling some curiosity, but no anxiety, as to Marie's fate. She had
not been in bed very long when she heard some one move stealthily
downstairs and enter the dining-room. Mademoiselle Thérèse, she knew,
had locked all the doors and gone to her bedroom, which was in the
front of the house, and she immediately guessed that it must be
something to do with Marie.
"The plot thickens," she said to herself, stealing to the window, which
looked out upon the garden. There, to her amazement, she saw
Mademoiselle Loiré emerging laboriously from the dining-room window.
She saw her in the moonlight creep down the garden towards the wall at
the end, but what happened after that she could only guess at, as the
trees cast a shadow which hid the lady from view.
"The lady or the tiger?" she said, laughing, as she peered into the
shades of the trees, and about five minutes later was rewarded by
seeing two figures hurry back and enter the house by the same way that
Mademoiselle Loiré had got out.
"Marie!" she thought triumphantly, wondering in what part of the garden
she had been hidden, as there was no gate in the direction from which
she had come. She lay awake for a little while, meditating on the
vagaries of the family she had fallen into, and then fell so soundly
asleep that she was surprised to find it broad daylight when she awoke,
and to see Marie sitting on the end of her bed, smiling beamingly upon
her.
"So you're back?" Barbara inquired with a yawn. "I hope you didn't
find it too cold in the garden last night."
"You saw us, then?" giggled Marie. "But you don't know where I came
from, do you? Nor does Aunt Thérèse. I'll tell you now; such an
exciting time I've had--just like a story-book heroine."
"Penny novelette heroine," murmured Barbara, but her visitor was too
full of her adventure to notice the remark.
"As you know, I told Aunt Thérèse I should drown myself," she began
complacently; "but, of course, such was not my intention."
"Of course not," interpolated Barbara drily.
"Instead, I confided my plan to Aunt Marie, then slipped out into the
street, and thence to our friends next door."
"The widower's?" exclaimed the English girl in surprise.
"The very same. I explained to him my project for giving my aunt a
wholesome lesson; and he, with true chivalry, invited me to sup with
them--he saw I was spent with hunger."
Barbara, looking at the plump, rosy face of her companion, which had
assumed a tragic air, stifled a laugh, and the girl continued.
"I spent a pleasant time, and was just finishing my repast when the
bell rang. 'My aunt!' I cried. 'Hide me from her wrath, Monsieur.'
'The coal-cellar,' he replied, after a moment's stern thought. In one
second I had disappeared--I was no more--and when my aunt entered she
found him at supper with his sons. When she had gone I returned, and
we spent the evening cheerfully in mutual congratulation. At
nightfall, when we considered all was secure, Aunt Marie came into the
garden, placed a ladder against the wall, and I passed from one garden
into the other and regained our room securely. I think Aunt Thérèse
suspected nothing--Monsieur Dubois is such a beautiful deceiver."
"Well, I think you ought to be ashamed of yourself," Barbara said
hotly. "Apart from the meanness and deceitfulness of it all, you have
behaved most childishly, and I shall always think less of Monsieur
Dubois for his untruthfulness."
"Untruthfulness!" Marie returned in an offended tone. "He acted most
chivalrously; but you English have such barbarous ideas about chivalry."
For a moment Barbara felt tempted to get up and shake the girl, then
came to the conclusion that it would be waste of time and energy to
argue with an individual whose ideas were so hopelessly dissimilar to
her own.
"I'm going to get up now," she said shortly. "I'll be glad if you
would go."
"But don't you want to know what we are going to do now?" queried
Marie, a little astonished that her companion should not show more
interest in such an exciting adventure. "Our campaign has only begun.
We will make Aunt Thérèse capitulate before we have done. After all,
she is the younger. We intend to stay in our rooms without descending
until she promises to ask pardon for her insults, and say no more of
the matter; and we will go out nightly to get air--carefully avoiding
meeting her--and will buy ourselves sausages and chocolate, and so live
until she sees how wrong she has been."
She ended with great pride, feeling that at length she must have made
an impression on this prosaic English girl, and was much disconcerted
when Barbara broke into laughter, crying, "Oh, you goose; how can you
be so silly!"
Marie rose with hurt dignity. "You have no feeling for romance," she
said. "Your horizon is most commonplace." Then, struck by a sudden
fear, she added, "But you surely will not be unpleasant enough to tell
Aunt Thérèse what I have confided to you? I trusted you."
"No," Barbara said, a little unwillingly, "I won't tell her; but I wish
you had left me out of the matter entirely, for I certainly cannot lie
to her." And with that Marie had to be content.