MADEMOISELLE VIRÉ.
"The Loirés' chief virtues are their friends," Barbara had written
home, and it was always a surprise to her to find that they knew so
many nice people. A few days after the adventurous visit to Mont St.
Michel she made the acquaintance of one whom she learned to love
dearly, and about whom there hung a halo of romance that charmed the
girl.
"Her story is known to me," Mademoiselle Thérèse explained on the way
to her house, "and I will tell it you--in confidence, of course." She
paused a moment to impress Barbara and to arrange her thoughts, for she
dearly loved a romantic tale, and would add garnishing by the way if
she did not consider it had enough.
"She is the daughter of a professor," she began presently. "They used
to live in Rouen--gray, beautiful, many-churched Rouen." The lady
glanced sideways at her companion to see if her rhetoric were
impressive enough, and Barbara waited gravely for her to continue,
though wondering if mademoiselle had ever read _The Lady of Shalott_.
"An officer in one of the regiments stationed in the quaint old town,"
pursued mademoiselle, "saw the professor's fair young daughter, and
fell rapturously in love with her. Whereupon they became betrothed."
Barbara frowned a little. The setting of the story was too ornate, and
seemed almost barbarous.
"And then?" she asked impatiently.
"Then--ah, then!" sighed the story-teller, who thought she was making a
great impression--"then the sorrow came. As soon as his family knew,
they were grievously angry, furiously wrathful, because she had no
_dot_; and when she heard of their fury and wrath she nobly refused to
marry him until he gained their consent. 'Never,' she cried" (and it
was obvious that here mademoiselle was relying on her own invention),
"'never will I marry thee against thy parents' wish.'"
She paused, and drew a long breath before proceeding. "A short time
after this, the regiment of her lover was ordered out to India, in
which pestiferous country he took a malicious fever and expired. She
has no relatives left now, though so frail and delicate, but lives with
an old maid in a very small domicile. She is cultivated to an extreme,
and is so fond of music that, though her house is too small to admit of
the pianoforte entering by the door, she had it introduced by the
window of the _salon_, which had to be unbricked--the window, I mean.
She has, moreover, three violins--one of which belonged to her
ever-to-be-lamented fiancé--and, though she is too frail to stand, she
will sit, when her health permits, and make music for hours together."
Mademoiselle Thérèse uttered the last words on the threshold of the
house, and Barbara did not know whether to laugh or to cry at such a
story being told in such a way. The door was opened by the old maid,
Jeannette, who wore a quaint mob cap and spotless apron, and who
followed the visitors into the room, and, having introduced them to her
mistress, seated herself in one corner and took up her knitting as
"company," Mademoiselle Thérèse whispered to Barbara.
The latter thought she had never before seen such a charming old lady
as Mademoiselle Viré, who now rose to greet them, and she wondered how
any one who had known her in the "many-churched Rouen days" could have
parted from her.
She talked for a little while to Mademoiselle Thérèse, then turned
gently to Barbara.
"Do you play, mademoiselle?"
"A little," the girl returned hesitatingly; "not enough, I'm afraid, to
give great pleasure."
But Mademoiselle Viré rose with flushed cheeks.
"Ah! then, will you do me the kindness to play some accompaniments?
That is one of the few things my good Jeannette cannot do for me," and
almost before Barbara realised it she was sitting on a high-backed
chair before the piano in the little _salon_, while Mademoiselle Viré
sought eagerly for her music.
The room was so small that, with Mademoiselle Thérèse and the maid
Jeannette--who seemed to be expected to follow her mistress--there
seemed hardly room to move in it, and Barbara was all the more nervous
by the nearness of her audience.
It certainly was rather anxious work, for though the little lady was
charmingly courteous, she would not allow a passage played wrongly to
go without correction. "I think we were not quite together there--were
we?" she would say. "May we play it through again?" and Barbara would
blush up to her hair, for she knew the violinist had played _her_ part
perfectly. She enjoyed it, though, in spite of her nervousness, and
was sorry when it was time to go.
"You will come again, I hope?" her hostess asked. "You have given me a
happy time." Then turning eagerly to Jeannette, she added, "Did I play
well to-day, Jeannette?"
The quaint old maid rose at once from her seat at the door, and came
across the room to put her mistress's cap straight.
"Madame played better than I have ever heard her," she replied.
Barbara had been so pleased with everything that she went again a few
days later by herself, and this time was led into the garden, which,
like the house, was very small, but full of roses and other
sweet-smelling things. Madame--for Barbara noticed that most people
seemed to call her so--was busy watering her flowers, and had on big
gloves and an apron. When she saw the girl coming, she came forward to
welcome her, saying, with a deprecatory movement towards her apron--
"But this apron!--These gloves! Had I known it was you, mademoiselle,
I should have changed them and made myself seemly. Why did you not
warn me, Jeannette?"
"Madame should not work in the garden and heat herself," the old woman
said doggedly; "she should let me do that."
But madame laughed gaily.
"Oh, but my flowers know when I water them, and could not bear to have
me leave them altogether to others." Then, in explanation to her
visitor, "It is an old quarrel between Jeannette and me. Is it not, my
friend? Now I am hot and thirsty. Will you bring us some of your good
wine, Jeannette?"
They were sitting in a little bower almost covered with roses, and
Barbara felt as if she must be in a pretty dream, when the maid came
back bearing two slender-stemmed wine-glasses and a musty bottle
covered with cobwebs.
"It is very old indeed," madame explained.
"Jeannette and I made it, when we were young, from the walnuts in our
garden in Rouen."
Having filled both glasses, she raised her own, and said, with a
graceful bow, "Your health, mademoiselle," and after taking a sip she
turned to Jeannette, repeating, "Your health, Jeannette." Whereupon
the old woman curtsied wonderfully low considering her stiff knees.
Barbara did not like the wine very much, but she would have drunk
several glasses to please her hostess, though, fortunately, she was not
asked to do so. They had a long talk, and the old lady related many
interesting tales about the life in Rouen and in Paris, where she had
often been, so that the time sped all too quickly for the girl. When
she got home she found two visitors, who were sitting under the trees
in the garden waiting to have tea. One was an English girl of about
fourteen, whom Barbara thought looked both unhappy and sulky. The
other was one of the ladies whose school she was at.
"This is Alice Meynell," Mademoiselle Thérèse said with some fervour,
"and, Alice, _this_ is a fellow-countrywoman of your own." But the
introduction did not seem to make the girl any happier, and she hardly
spoke all tea-time, though Marie did her best to carry on a
conversation. When she had returned to work with Mademoiselle Loiré,
the business of entertainment fell to Barbara, who proposed a walk
round the garden.
At first the visitor did not seem to care for the idea, but when the
mistress with her suggested it was too hot to walk about, she
immediately jumped up and said there was nothing she would like better.
There seemed to be few subjects that interested her; but when, almost
in desperation, Barbara asked how she liked France, she suddenly burst
forth into speech.
"I hate it," she cried viciously. "I detest it and the people I am
with, who never let me out of their sight. 'Spies,' I call
them--'spies,' not teachers. They even come with me to church--one of
them at least--and I feel as if I were in prison."
"But surely there is no harm in their coming to church with you?"
Barbara said. "Besides, in France, you know, they have such strict
ideas about chaperones that it's quite natural for them to be careful.
Mademoiselle Thérèse goes almost everywhere with me, and I am a good
deal older than you are."
"But they're _not_ Protestants--I'm sure they're not," the girl
returned hotly. "They shouldn't come to church with me; they only
pretend. Besides, they don't follow the other girls about nearly as
carefully. The worst of it is that I have to stay here for the
holidays, too."
She seemed very miserable about it, and Barbara thought it might
relieve her to confide in some one, and, after a little skilful
questioning, the whole story came out.
Her mother was dead, and her father in the West Indies, and though she
wrote him often and fully about everything, she never got any answers
to her questions, so that she was sure people opened her letters and
put in different news. She was afraid the same thing was done with her
father's letters to her, because once something was said by mistake
that could have been learned only by reading the news intended for her
eyes alone.
"He never saw the place," the girl continued. "He took me to my aunt
in England, who promised to find me a school. She thought the whole
business a nuisance, and was only too glad to find a place quickly
where they'd keep me for the holidays too. She never asks me to go to
England--not that I would if she wanted me to."
There were angry tears in the girl's eyes, and Barbara thought the case
really did seem rather a hard one, though it was clear her companion
had been spoiled at home, and had probably had her own way before
coming to school.
"It does sound rather horrid," Barbara agreed, "and three years must
seem a long time; but it will go at last, you know."
The girl shook her head.
"Too slowly, far too slowly--it just crawls. I never have any one to
talk things over with, either, you see, for I can't trust the French
girls; they carry tales, I know. Even now--look how she watches me;
she longs to know what I'm saying."
Barbara looked round, and it was true that the visitor seemed more
interested in watching them than in Mademoiselle Thérèse's
conversation; and, directly she caught Barbara's eye, she got up
hastily and said they must go. Alice Meynell immediately relapsed into
sulkiness again; but, just as she was saying good-bye, she managed to
whisper--
"I shall run away soon. I know I can't stand it much longer."
The others were too near for Barbara to do more than give her a warm
squeeze of the hand; but she watched the girl out of sight, feeling
very sorry for her. If she had lived a free-and-easy life on her
father's plantation, never having known a mother's care, it was no
wonder that she should be a little wild and find her present life
irksome.
"She looks quite equal to doing something desperate," Barbara thought,
as she turned to go in to supper. "I must try to see her again soon,
for who knows what mad ideas a girl of only fifteen may take into her
head!"