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Barbara in Brittany

<h3> CHAPTER IX. </h3> <h3> MADEMOISELLE VIR�. </h3> "The Loir�s' 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 Th�r�se 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 fianc�—and, though she is too frail to stand, she will sit, when her health permits, and make music for hours together." Mademoiselle Th�r�se 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 Th�r�se whispered to Barbara. The latter thought she had never before seen such a charming old lady as Mademoiselle Vir�, 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 Th�r�se, 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 Vir� 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 Vir� sought eagerly for her music. The room was so small that, with Mademoiselle Th�r�se 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 Th�r�se 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 Loir�, 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 Th�r�se 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 Th�r�se'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!" <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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