Christmas Holiday (13 page)

“You must understand how much I wanted to see a young girl of whom my son has talked to me so much. I was prepared for a disagreeable surprise. I have, to tell you the truth, no great confidence in my son’s judgement. It is a relief to me to see that you are as nice as he told me you were.”

All this she said with a good deal of facial expression, with smiles and little nods of the head, flatteringly, in the manner of a hostess accustomed to society trying to set a stranger at her ease. Lydia, watchful too, answered with becoming diffidence. Madame Berger gave an emphatic, slightly forced laugh and made an enthusiastic little gesture.

“But you are charming. I’m not surprised that this son of mine should neglect his old mother for your sake.”

Tea was brought in by a stolid-looking young maid whom Madame Berger, while continuing her gesticulative, complimentary remarks, watched with sharp, anxious eyes, so that Lydia guessed that a tea-party
was an unusual event in the house and the hostess was not quite sure that the servant knew how to set about things. They went into the dining-room and sat down. There was a small grand piano in it.

“It takes up room,” said Madame Berger, “but my son is passionately devoted to music. He plays for hours at a time. He tells me that you are a musician of the first class.”

“He exaggerates. I’m very fond of it, but very ignorant.”

“You are too modest, mademoiselle.”

There was a dish of little cakes from the confectioner’s and a dish of sandwiches. Under each plate was a doyley and on each a tiny napkin. Madame Berger had evidently taken pains to do things in a modish way. With a smile in her cold eyes she asked Lydia how she would like her tea.

“You Russians always take lemon, I know, and I got a lemon for you specially. Will you begin with a sandwich?”

The tea tasted of straw.

“I know you Russians smoke all through your meals. Please do not stand on any ceremony with me. Robert, where are the cigarettes?”

Madame Berger pressed sandwiches on Lydia, she pressed cakes; she was one of those hostesses who look upon it as a mark of hospitality to make their guests eat however unwilling they may be. She talked without ceasing, well, in a high-pitched, metallic voice, smiling a great deal, and her politeness was effusive. She asked Lydia a great many questions, which had a casual air
so that on the face of it they looked like the civil inquiries a woman of the world would put out of sympathy for a friendless girl, but Lydia realized that they were cleverly designed to find out everything she could about her. Lydia’s heart sank; this was not the sort of woman who for love of her son would allow him to do an imprudent thing; but the certainty of this gave her back her own assurance. It was obvious that she had nothing to lose; she certainly had nothing to hide; and she answered the questions with frankness. She told Madame Berger, as she had already told Robert, about her father and mother, and what her life had been in London and how she had lived since her mother’s death. It even amused her to see behind Madame Berger’s warm sympathy, through her shocked commiserating answers, the shrewdness that weighed every word she heard and drew conclusions upon it. After two or three unavailing attempts to go, which Madame Berger would not hear of, Lydia managed to tear herself away from so much friendliness. Robert was to see her home. Madame Berger seized both her hands when she said good-bye to her and her fine dark eyes glittered with cordiality.

“You are delicious,” she said. “You know your way now, you must come and see me often, often; you will be always sure of a hearty welcome.”

When they were walking along to the car Robert took her arm with an affectionate gesture which seemed to ask for protection rather than to offer it and which charmed her.

“Well, my dear one, it went off very well. My mother
liked you. You made a conquest of her at once. She’ll adore you.”

Lydia laughed.

“Don’t be so silly. She detested me.”

“No, no, you’re wrong. I promise you. I know her, I saw at once that she took to you.”

Lydia shrugged her shoulders, but did not answer. When they parted they arranged to go to the cinema on the following Tuesday. She agreed to his plan, but she was pretty sure that his mother would put a stop to it. He knew her address now.

“If anything should happen to prevent you, you’ll send me a petit bleu?”

“Nothing will happen to prevent me,” he said fondly.

She was very sad that evening. If she could have got by herself she would have cried. But perhaps it was just as well that she couldn’t; it was no good making oneself bad blood. It had been a foolish dream. She would get over her unhappiness; after all, she was used to it. It would have been much worse if he had been her lover and thrown her over.

Monday passed, Tuesday came; but no petit bleu. She was certain that it would be there when she got back from work. Nothing. She had an hour before she need think of getting ready, and she passed it waiting with sickening anxiety for the bell to ring; she dressed with the feeling that she was foolish to take the trouble, for the message would arrive before she was finished. She wondered if it were possible that he would let her go to the cinema and not turn up. It would be heartless,
it would be cruel, but she knew that he was under his mother’s thumb, she suspected he was weak, and it might be that to let her go to a meeting-place and not come himself would seem to him the best way, brutal though it was, to show her that he was done with her. No sooner had this notion occurred to her than she was sure of it and she nearly decided not to go. Nevertheless she went. After all, if he could be so beastly it would prove that she was well rid of him.

But he was there all right and when he saw her walking along he came towards her with the springy gait which marked his eager vitality. On his face shone his sweet smile. His spirits seemed even higher than usual.

“I’m not in the mood for the pictures this evening,” he said. “Let us have a drink at Fouquet’s and then go for a drive. I’ve got a car just round the corner.”

“If you like.”

It was fine and dry, though cold, and the stars in the frosty night seemed to laugh with a good-natured malice at the gaudy lights of the Champs-Élysées. They had a glass of beer, Robert meanwhile talking nineteen to the dozen, and then they walked up the Avenue George V to where he had parked his car. Lydia was puzzled. He talked quite naturally, but she had no notion what were his powers of dissimulation, and she could not help asking herself whether he proposed the drive in order to break unhappy news to her. He was an emotional creature, sometimes, she had discovered, even a trifle theatrical, (but that amused
rather than offended her), and she wondered whether he were setting the stage for an affecting scene of renunciation.

“This isn’t the same car that you had on Sunday,” she said, when they came to it.

“No. It belongs to a friend who wants to sell. I said I wanted to show it to a possible purchaser.”

They drove to the Arc de Triomphe and then along the Avenue Foch till they came to the Bois. It was dark there except when they met the head-lights of a car coming towards them, and deserted except for a car parked here and there in which one surmised a couple was engaged in amorous conversation. Presently Robert drew up at the kerb.

“Shall we stop here and smoke a cigarette?” he said. “You’re not cold?”

“No.”

It was a solitary spot and in other circumstances Lydia might have felt a trifle nervous. But she thought she knew Robert well enough to know that he was incapable of taking advantage of the situation. He had too nice a nature. Moreover she had an intuition that he had something on his mind, and was curious to know what it was. He lit her cigarette and his and for a moment kept silent. She realized that he was embarrassed and did not know how to begin. Her heart began to beat anxiously.

“I’ve got something to say to you, my dear,” he said at last.

“Yes?”

“Mon Dieu, I hardly know how to put it. I’m not
often nervous, but at the moment I have a curious sensation that is quite new to me.”

Lydia’s heart sank, but she had no intention of showing that she was suffering.

“If one has something awkward to say,” she answered lightly, “it’s better to say it quite plainly, you know. One doesn’t do much good by beating about the bush.”

“I’ll take you at your word. Will you marry me?”

“Me?”

It was the last thing she had expected him to say.

“I love you passionately. I think I fell in love with you at first sight, when we stood side by side at that concert, and the tears poured down your pale cheeks.”

“But your mother?”

“My mother is delighted. She’s waiting now. I said that if you consented I would take you to her. She wants to embrace you. She’s happy at the thought that I’m settling down with someone she entirely approves of, and the idea is that after we’ve all had a good cry together we should crack a bottle of champagne.”

“Last Sunday when you took me to see your mother, had you told her that you wished to marry me?”

“But of course. She very naturally wanted to see what you were like. She’s not stupid, my mother; she made up her mind at once.”

“I had an idea she didn’t like me.”

“You were wrong.”

They smiled into one another’s eyes, and she raised her face to his. For the first time he kissed her on the lips.

“There’s no doubt,” he said, “that a right-hand drive is much more convenient for kissing a girl than a left-hand.”

“You fool,” she laughed.

“Then you do care for me a little?”

“I’ve worshipped you ever since I first saw you.”

“But with the reserve of a well-brought-up young woman who will not give free rein to her emotions until she’s quite sure it’s prudent?” he answered, tenderly chaffing her.

But she answered seriously:

“I’ve suffered so much in my short life, I didn’t want to expose myself to a suffering perhaps greater than I could bear.”

“I adore you.”

She had never known such happiness; indeed, she could hardly bring herself to believe it: at that moment her heart overflowed with gratitude to life. She would have liked to sit there, nestling in his arms, for ever; at that moment she would have liked to die. But she bestirred herself.

“Let us go to your mother,” she said.

She felt on a sudden warm with love for that woman who but just knew her, and yet, contrary to all expectation, because her son loved her, because with her sharp eyes she had seen that she deeply loved her son, had consented, even gladly, to their marriage. Lydia did not think there could be another woman in France who was capable of such a sacrifice.

They drove off. Robert parked the car in a street parallel to the one in which he lived. When they reached
the little house he opened the front door with his latchkey and excitedly preceded Lydia into the sitting-room.

“O.K., mother.”

Lydia immediately followed him in and Madame Berger, in the same black dress of flowered silk as she had worn on Sunday, came forward and took her in her arms.

“My dear child,” she cried. “I’m so happy.”

Lydia burst into tears. Madame Berger kissed her tenderly.

“There, there, there! You mustn’t cry. I give you my son with all my heart. I know you’ll make him a good wife. Come, sit down. Robert will open a bottle of champagne.”

Lydia composed herself and dried her eyes.

“You are too good to me, Madame. I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve so much kindness.”

Madame Berger took her hand and gently patted it.

“You have fallen in love with my son and he has fallen in love with you.”

Robert had gone out of the room. Lydia felt that she must at once state the facts as they were.

“But, Madame, I don’t feel sure that you realize the circumstances. The little money that my father was able to get out of Russia went years ago. I have nothing but what I earn. Nothing, absolutely nothing. And only two dresses besides the one I’m wearing.”

“But, my dear child, what does that matter? Oh, I don’t deny it, I should have been pleased if you had been able to bring Robert a reasonable dot, but money isn’t everything. Love is more important. And nowadays
what is money worth? I flatter myself that I am a good judge of character and it didn’t take me long to discover that you have a sweet and honest nature. I saw that you had been well brought up and I judged that you had good principles. After all that is what one wants in a wife, and you know, I know my Robert, he would never have been happy with a little French bourgeoise. He has a romantic disposition and it says something to him that you are Russian. And it isn’t as if you were nobody; it is after all something one need not be ashamed of to be the daughter of a professor.”

Robert came in with glasses and a bottle of champagne. They sat talking late into the night. Madame Berger had her plan cut and dried and they could do nothing but accept it; Lydia and Robert should live in the house while she would make herself comfortable in the little pavilion at the back of the garden. They would have their meals in common, but otherwise she would keep to her own quarters. She was decided that the young couple must be left to themselves and not exposed to interference from her.

“I don’t want you to look upon me as a mother-in-law,” she told Lydia. “I want to be the mother to you that you’ve lost, but I also want to be your friend.”

She was anxious that the marriage should take place without delay. Lydia had a League of Nations passport and a Carte de Séjour; her papers were in order; so they had only to wait the time needed for notification to be made at the Mairie. Since Robert was Catholic and Lydia Orthodox, they decided, notwithstanding Madame Berger’s reluctance, to waive a religious ceremony
that neither of them cared about. Lydia was too excited and too confused to sleep that night.

The marriage took place very quietly. The only persons present were Madame Berger and an old friend of the family, Colonel Legrand, an army doctor who had been a brother officer of Robert’s father; Evgenia and Alexey and their children. It took place on a Friday and since Robert had to go to work on the Monday morning their honeymoon was brief. Robert drove Lydia to Dieppe in a car that he had been lent and drove her back on Sunday night.