Joyselle's party arrived at Falaise the next evening, and leaving Brigit
at the inn in the Rue d'Argentin, the others drove on to old M.
Joyselle's house in the Rue Victor Hugo.
Brigit was very tired and glad to rest, for the day's journey had been
long, and Joyselle's interest in her interest in his country had taken
the form of a restless desire to have her see everything possible from
both sides of the compartment. For hours, therefore, she had been
springing from one window to another, admiring everything to which he
pointed, in a mad attempt to satisfy his pride in _ici-bas_.
Her coming at all had been entirely his idea, and her faint refusals he
had laughed to scorn, easily enlisting Théo, and, with a trifle more
difficulty, his wife, to his cause.
"Of course you will go with us," he had cried, beaming with joy and
tossing Papillon nearly to the ceiling as some outlet for his feelings,
"and it will be glorious; and think of the ecstasy of my old people and
the rest!"
"Remember, Victor--they are simple people," Félicité had ventured, but
he had laughed again.
"And so is she! They are peasants, and she is a great lady. _Ça se
comprend._ But extremes meet, and Brigit has none of the British
middle-class snobbism. It is well that she should see the people from
whom we come. She shall go with us."
And she had come.
Things had gone very well of late, and as she lay on her narrow bed
resting and waiting for Théo to fetch her, she reviewed the events that
had occurred since her great quarrel with Victor, and drew a deep breath
of satisfaction at the state of affairs.
She and Joyselle, both of them remembering the horror of the quarrel,
had been exceptionally gentle to each other, and as so often happens
when a situation is apparently unbearable, it had suddenly become quite
smooth and pleasant. Restraining himself from demonstrativeness,
Joyselle had been able to keep his emotions well in hand, and the tacit
avoidance of _têtes-à-tête_ had also proved most helpful.
Félicité's innocent interpretation of their feelings had gone far, too,
towards quieting those feelings almost to her conception of them. There
were times, Brigit had seen, not without amusement, when Victor had
nearly felt for her the paternal solicitude his wife believed him to
feel, and even though she smiled at this susceptibility to impression in
him, the girl more than once caught herself semi-unconsciously playing
the _rôle_ of youthful hero-worshipper cast for her by the older woman.
The position should have been untenable, but it was not. As yet no
remorse had come to Brigit regarding Félicité, although she frequently
experienced a pang of self-loathing on meeting Théo's honest and
trusting eyes. Her upbringing had been such that she really believed
herself to be as yet quite guiltless of anything more than an almost
inevitable deceit, and even when she did regret the deceit, the thought
that she was going to marry Théo gave her instant comfort, as though she
were contemplating some noble act of atonement.
"Victor is very good now," she thought, turning her flat, hard pillow,
"and I am much less nervous and irritable. Things always do straighten
themselves out, I suppose--for those who know how to wait. Mere waiting
does no good, it's the knowing how that counts. And I think we are
learning now. If only Théo would fall in love with someone else. The
minute he becomes unhappy or even impatient Victor will grow paternal,
and that is horrible. Théo seems happy enough now----"
Her room was small and high, with orange-coloured stencillings on a grey
ground, and thin, dangerously movable strips of carpet on the slippery
floor. The curtains were of blue flannel and thoroughly unbeautiful.
The sitting-room was exactly like the bedroom, except that its
stencilling was bright green and that it had no bed. There was in each
room a big bunch of dahlias of gorgeous hues--offerings from Madame
Chalumeau.
Yellow Dog Papillon, who had been left with Brigit to keep her company,
lay on one of the rugs and snapped rudely at flies. It was very warm,
and the tea had proved quite undrinkable. Brigit thought that she did
not greatly care for the Chevreuil d'Or.
Then eight o'clock struck and she rose and rang for hot water. The
"maid," who was incidentally a grandmother, wore a blue skirt and a red
blouse and smiled cheerfully and toothlessly.
"Yes, yes, mademoiselle, _de l'eau chaude_. I have brought it! _Je
connais ma clientèle, moi._" With a proud smile she set down a jug about
as large as a milk-jug for two coffee-drinkers, and withdrew.
Smiling to herself, Brigit dressed and then went into her sitting-room,
and opening a window looked down into the street.
It is a most important thoroughfare, this Rue d'Argentin; the Rue de la
Paix de Falaise.
Leaning out the window and looking to her left Brigit beheld the Place
St. Gervais, with its fountain, its market-place, now of course empty,
and its church steps, on which beggars sleep by day. Opposite her was a
_café_, at present enlivened by the dashing presence of two
foot-soldiers and an old man playing dominoes with himself.
Above the houses the sky was pale and clear, and from a garden off to
the right at the end of the street came a cooing of wood-pigeons.
Two little boys in black blouses came running up the street, their
sabots clacking against the rough cobbles. Someone was playing a
mandolin, and at the foot of the street, near the bridge, a girl in a
pink apron was flirting with a youth with curly red hair.
People stood by their shop doors, the men smoking small clay pipes, the
women usually with a child or two at their skirts. A quiet scene, dull
and homely, this birthplace of the Conqueror, and at this humble end of
the great street rather pathetic in its aspect of simple relaxation.
Suddenly a little ripple of excited interest touched the groups in the
street. The two soldiers rose and stared hard to their left; M. Perret
of the Pharmacie Normale came out at a quick call from his wife, and
stood, pestle in hand, as she struggled with a maddening knot in the
strings of her black apron.
Brigit, leaning out still further, laughed aloud.
"Victor," she said under her breath. "Oh, _look_ at him! You old
sabreur!"
Joyselle, a great purple flower in his coat, came swinging down the
street, bowing right and left, his grey felt hat in his gloved hand. He
looked amazingly young and amazingly handsome, and there was no
mistaking the fact that, great man though he undoubtedly was, he was
hugely enjoying the homage of his townspeople.
When he reached the Pharmacie Normale he paused, and shaking hands
politely with Madame Perret, he met M. Perret with open arms, and the
little apothecary, bounding at him, was caught and kissed on either
cheek.
"_Ce cher_ Anatole!" Brigit heard him exclaim, "and how art thou, old
one?"
Perret, greatly delighted, skipped about in rapture, inquiring in a high
piping voice for Félicité and the boy, and asking many questions for
which he waited for no answer.
Then there was a lady from the shop, _Au Bonheur des chers Petits_, to
be greeted very cordially, and the old domino-player, who, Brigit
learned, was a cousin.
There was something very charming in the simplicity of Joyselle's
pleasure in seeing his boyhood's friends, and something almost ludicrous
in his perfectly obvious joy in their homage.
Looking down at him in his oft-interrupted progress, Brigit told herself
that things must turn out all right. "He is so good-natured and generous
and strong," she reflected, with glad shifting of all responsibility,
"he will surely find some way out."
When at last she heard his light, regular footfall coming down the
passage she rose and went to meet him.
"So the Conquering Hero has come," she teased. "I have been watching
your advance down the street. Such a strut!"
"Did I strut? I daresay. They are my own people and I love their
affection. Also, as you say, it pleases my vanity. _Hélas_, my dear, I
am very vain."
She put on her hat and took up her gloves.
"I thought Théo was coming for me, Glorieux."
His face changed. "No, my dear love. It is _my_ town, this. Here I was
born, here I lived as a child. I must show it to you."
Taking her hand he laid it on his arm with a gentle little pat and led
her proudly downstairs.