The tennis-players returned at tea-time, bringing monsieur Claussel with
them. He was a young man with shy, soft, prominent dark eyes and the
smallest dot of a dark moustache on either side of a nervous upper lip,
and, when tennis was not in progress to absorb his attention, it was
excessively directed to the social exigencies of the occasion. Giles
imagined, as he watched him spring from his chair to offer it, stand
back to let a lady pass, bow with heels together, and tentatively resume
his seat only again to leave it, that he was perhaps less at home in the
jungle than André, and felt, in his introduction to it, a doubled need
for every amenity. It was his first appearance at the Chardonnerets
tea-table, and in his presence, the presence of mademoiselle Fontaine,
her mother and grandmother, madame Vervier may have felt a convenience.
If she found it at all difficult to face Alix and André and Giles after
the interview from which she had just come, her guests, and monsieur
Claussel in particular, gave her an excuse for looking at them rather
than at her intimates. And Giles felt sure that she avoided her
daughter’s eyes.
They were on her, those remote blue eyes of Alix’s, with no insistence,
no appeal. They dwelt in a wide contemplativeness that recalled to him
madame Vervier’s own, were it not that proud patience rather than
security lay behind it; and Giles had the fancy, as he looked at her,
that, in the gaze of Alix, the Mouverays, beneath the threshold of the
child’s consciousness, were judging Hélène Vervier. Whatever the
verdict, Alix’s tenderness for her mother would not waver; but he
watched the Mouverays imparting to her need a further reënforcement of
pride and courage.
Tea was prolonged. Madame Dumont, in a great crested bonnet, sat
enthroned, receiving cakes and homage. She was rather silent, rather, in
her black draperies, the sunken old raven, its feathers ruffled high.
Yet Giles caught more than once the piercing glint of an avid eye,
turning in conjectures that he could too well imagine upon madame
Vervier and André; upon himself and Alix; and once, in the glance of
mademoiselle Blanche, he seemed to see a stealthy hereditary surmise,
and Alix rather than madame Vervier was its object.
Monsieur Jules was persuaded to bring out his canvases and range them
for monsieur Claussel’s admiration. The painful, vivid patterns and
colours still distressed Giles, but, his eyes already acclimatized to
their strangeness, began to exercise a charm. “_Quel horreur!_” madame
Dumont cried, but was fondly checked by mademoiselle Blanche, who
murmured to her, smiling over her head at Giles: “We are no longer in
the days of Bouguereau and Meissonnier, Grand’mère!”
She confided to him, as they stood side by side, that monsieur Claussel
was a devout admirer of modern art and that his admiration, since he was
the heir to a _fortune princière—faite dans les pâtes_—might be of
much significance to poor Jules. “She arranged it all, you may be sure,”
said mademoiselle Blanche, casting a fond glance upon their hostess. “It
is always she who thinks of such opportunities for her friends.—What a
heart, what a mind it is!—Whatever her own perplexities and
anxieties—and I can assure you that her life does not lack them—she
never fails in resource and kindness when it is a question of her
friends’ interests.—She is looking pale—very weary, is it not so?—You
take mademoiselle Alix back to England with you?” And since Giles,
disconcerted, remained silent, mademoiselle Blanche added: “She is ready
always to sacrifice herself.”
“_Mais oui, c’est très bizarre_,” little madame Collet murmured, craning
her neck to see the pictures, while Giles wondered over mademoiselle
Blanche.
André, meanwhile, smiling in a happy confidence, pointed out planes and
stresses to the heir of _les pâtes_, who stood with his little shoulders
screwed up, his elbows in his hands, rapt away from shyness and
self-consciousness by his sincere delight. Monsieur Jules remained
morose; but it was evident that he had found a munificent patron.
And when they were all gone and an evening of dusky rose began, after
the hot day, to drop softly from the sky, madame Vervier said to André
that she must take the air. She would go with him for a little turn in
his car.
She was not yet ready for a meeting with her child. If she was to think
things over and decide how she should put them to Alix, she must get
away to do it. Giles understood; but how could Alix understand such
necessities? He guessed at the grief and perplexity that must strive
within her.
“And now, indefatigable as you are, _ma chère enfant_,” said monsieur de
Maubert when he and Giles and Alix were left alone, “framed of steel and
india-rubber as I sometimes feel you to be when I watch your day, you
will doubtless wish to go for a walk with monsieur Giles. Do not
hesitate to leave me. I shall, I think, have a siesta here with my head
in the shade and my feet in the sunset; even in the details of life,
monsieur Giles, I am, you see, the Epicurean.”
Giles knew, then, that madame Vervier’s intentions, in regard to himself
and Alix, had been imparted to monsieur de Maubert who thus took
occasion for furthering them.
But Alix said: “No; the walk is not to be with Giles. I have promised
Annette Laboulie to catch shrimps with her on the beach till
supper-time.”
“And who,” monsieur de Maubert, kindly, yet with a certain austerity
inquired, “is Annette Laboulie?”
“She came with my shoes her father had mended, the other afternoon. Do
you remember? A dark, thin girl. She has not enough to eat.”
“You mean the sad young ragamuffin with the untidy hair? Not enough to
eat? That must be seen to.”
“She is a ragamuffin; and untidy; I reproach her for that. But she is
clean. And she is a clever girl in all sorts of ways. There are eight
children, and Annette is a mother to them all. We are great friends. I
used to play with her when I was little and Maman and I first came
here.”
“Monsieur Giles, you are not flattered by this preference!” smiled
monsieur de Maubert.
“And they don’t even invite me to join them!” laughed Giles.
But he understood. After the longing to know what Maman had said to
Giles must come the longing to know what Giles now felt about Maman; but
Alix wanted none of his impressions until those of Maman had been
vouchsafed to her. As if by some deep instinct she knew that her destiny
had been in question that afternoon.
“But do come with us, Giles,” she now said, and he replied that he
really had letters he ought to write. “Letters home. You see my time
here is up.”
“Up? Indeed? Why up?” monsieur de Maubert inquired very kindly.
“Well, I’ve stayed already longer than I intended and they all expect me
back in time to start next Monday on a walking tour around the coast of
Cornwall.”
“Next Monday? But that means that you will leave us the day after
to-morrow. You will miss our Sunday excursion to Caudebec.”
“I’m afraid I must.”
Alix was looking at him; wondering, he knew, whether his resolve was
sudden.
After he had written his letter to his mother, he went out into the
village to post it, and coming back by the cliff he was able to see that
even if Annette had been an improvisation the drama of the shrimping was
being carried out. The two girls were pushing their nets before them on
the sands, bare-legged, in the shallow water. Their voices, bell-like,
came to him through the evening air. Alix laughed.
Her faculty for fraternizing with the people seemed to him a charming
gift. Neither Ruth nor Rosemary would have known what to do with Annette
in tête-à-tête. They could have dealt with her coöperatively; in the
Girl Guides or one of Aunt Bella’s clubs; but not as an individual. And
Toppie, full of still solicitude, would have dealt with her as a soul.
The difference was that Alix was not dealing with her at all. She was
enjoying Annette as much as Annette was enjoying her. They were simply
two girls engaged in a pastime delightful to them both; and Giles
surmised that such easy intercourse was perhaps only possible in a
country where caste was a thing so impassable that intimacy lent itself
to no misinterpretation. Caste in France, he was coming more and more to
see, centred itself on the question of marriage. In a country where the
romance of the _mésalliance_, so dear to English hearts, was nearly
unknown, there was little likelihood of its disintegration. How little
do those know France, thought Giles, who imagine her republican at
heart!
Madame Vervier did not return from her drive till supper time, and after
supper, during which she talked cheerfully, if with a certain languor,
she established herself in the drawing-room with monsieur de Maubert.
There was no moon to-night and the light streamed out over the verandah
from the drawing-room window. Giles, from his place on the steps, could
see that madame Vervier, beside the lamp, had her embroidery and that
she spoke to monsieur de Maubert in low tones.
Alix brought out a saucer of milk for a stray kitten that she and
Annette had found. “I shall take it to Paris with me,” she said,
stroking the back of the little creature, while it drank, half choked
with purrs and lapping.
“It is not a pretty kitten, mademoiselle Alix,” said André, who sat
beside Giles smoking.
“No; it is not pretty; except as all kittens are pretty—the delicate
little paws; the beautiful movements. In time it will look better; with
brushing and good food,” said Alix. “And it has a charming little coral
nose to match the coral beads under its feet.—Only hear it purr, Giles!
Have you ever noticed the softness of a kitten’s feet?—they are like
raspberries to hold in one’s hand.”
André watched her meditatively.
“It is time for your bed, _mon enfant_.” Madame Vervier’s voice came
from the drawing-room. “I will visit you before you sleep.—Ah, _mais
non_! You must not have the kitten with you. You would be devoured by
fleas. It will be quite happy shut into the kitchen.”
“But it is so young, Maman; so lonely. It must so miss its mother.” Alix
stood supplicating, the kitten held to her cheek. “I do not mind the
fleas.”
Madame Vervier was melted; or it was, perhaps, an evening on which she
was inclined to indulgence. “Very well. If you do not mind the fleas!
While it misses its mother, then. Too soon, alas, it will be a mother
itself!”
“No; for it is a male cat, Maman,” said Alix with austere realism. “You
need fear nothing on that score. There will be no more kittens to
trouble you.”
“_A la bonne heure!_” laughed madame Vervier.
“But she returns to you, after her holiday with us here, the charming
young creature,” André, when Alix had carried away her kitten, observed
to Giles. It was remarkable, the sense they all gave Giles, that Alix
was permanently his responsibility, and André’s voice had almost the
geniality of family affection. If not he, then another English husband.
Alix’s future had been, by those most concerned with it—by himself and
by her mother—definitely agreed upon; that was the fact to which
André’s voice and smile bore witness; and madame Vervier was certainly
imparting the same news to monsieur de Maubert as she now sat
embroidering beside him in her Ingres dress and scarf.
Alix herself, meanwhile, remained in ignorance of her destiny.
“Rather a shame she shouldn’t know it yet,” said Giles. “She thinks
she’s going back to Paris, you see.”
“Shame? Oh, no,” said André in gentle surprise. “It is much better that
she should have her holiday unspoiled. We are to say nothing of it to
her—as madame Vervier will tell you.—It would grieve her too much to
hear it now. By degrees, as the time draws near, her mother will prepare
her mind and bring her to see the wisdom of the decision.”
That, of course, would be André’s point of view. He took it for granted
that _jeunes filles_ should be kept in ignorance of their destiny until
such time as their elders thought fit to enlighten them.
Giles was aware of a confused anger that seemed to involve himself as
well as André and madame Vervier. “Since she and her mother are so
devoted, it’s a pity, I think, to hoodwink her,” he said. “I hope her
mother will tell her what she’s decided on at once. I shall advise her
to tell her.”
At this point, suddenly, a voice dropped to them through the darkness.
“I am sorry. My room is above you. I can hear all that you say.” Alix’s
voice. Thrilling with bitterness.
The young men sat mute, eyeing each other.
“_Dieu! Quelle gaffe ai-je commise!_” whispered André, and—“How much
has she heard?”
“As little as she could, you may be sure,” Giles muttered.
André found his resource. “_Très bien! Très bien_, mademoiselle Alix,”
he called. “But this is a case where _une écouteuse_ would hear only
good of herself.”
Alix made no reply. The windows of her room, Giles now remembered,
opened beside his, on the roof of the verandah. She must have heard all
if she had stood near them.
“This is very unfortunate,” André murmured. “I have been stupid; very
stupid. I must at once make my confession.”
“Yes. You’d better,” said Giles grimly. “It wouldn’t do for her mother
to go up now and pretend she’d made no plans at all.”
“Oh—our hostess would be able to meet even that contingency,” said
André with, perhaps, the slightest flavour of irony. “A daughter, with
us, knows too well that she may trust her mother to do the best for her
happiness.”
But, as Giles remained sitting on, hearing in the drawing-room the low
murmur of consultation and André’s repeated “_Je suis désolé_,” it
became disastrously clear to him that, more than Maman’s intended
accommodations of the truth, Alix would resent André’s admission to
Maman’s confidence. How, indeed, could she interpret that?
The murmur in the drawing-room ceased, madame Vervier rose and went
upstairs, and, before André could rejoin him, Giles had taken refuge in
his own room. He could not face André; he could not face monsieur de
Maubert, or madame Vervier herself, again that evening. None of them,
not even madame Vervier, could see as he saw the disaster that had
befallen his poor little friend. He leaned at his window feeling hot and
sick, but even here, though the windows of Alix’s room had been closed,
the voices of mother and daughter came to him through the flimsy barrier
of the wall. He could not hear the words, but in their sharp passionate
rhythm he discerned what the words must be. “Why to him, Maman! What are
his rights! He was a stranger to us when I left you!”
But madame Vervier would, indeed, never lack resource. Unready as she
must feel herself to face this further predicament, Giles heard the
muffled murmur of her voice, rising, falling, expostulating; urgent,
tender, invulnerable. She would find answers to everything. Or was it
that there were some questions her child would not ask of her? When, at
last, she ceased, there was no reply. He heard that Alix was crying.