The Emperor (15 page)

Madame snorted. 'Always the jokes! But I know that you
starve yourself while this Vendenoir eats meat — aye, and a
pint of wine a week, which I suppose you will say this
doctor
tells you he must have. And what has he done to deserve all
this care? We all know what he was in Paris, who he served,
and who perished by his connivance.'

‘
Oh, Flon, please don't!' Héloïse cried. She tried not to
think too often of those she had left behind, who had died
while Vendenoir lived. Papa, her dear Papa! She missed him
still, so much. 'Vendenoir is my husband, and it is my duty
to take care of him.'

‘
Duty!' said Madame with robust contempt. Héloïse bit
her lip.

‘
It sustains me,' she said. 'And, don't you see, if I loved
him, I might sometimes eat meat with him. But I hate him so
much, that only by taking the very best care of him, can I
atone for the sin.’

Madame Chouflon looked with puzzled admiration at
this child of eighteen who spoke like a nun of eighty, and
then offered her her own comfort. ‘Well, he cannot last for
ever, and then you will be free. And the war cannot last for
ever, either. One day the revolutionaries will be beaten, and
the King will return, and we can all go home and be happy.’

It was what they all said, with varying degrees of belief,
but Héloïse would not allow herself to cling to that particul
ar illusion. She hoped that she might return one day, but it
was without any assurance. And if they did go back, France
would be very different, of that she was sure. There could be
no return to the old way of life, whatever happened; but she was young, and she understood that the older
émigrés
could
not adjust to the new world, and needed to believe that
Paradise could be regained. To live one day at a time was
her way of coping with harsh reality; to think neither about
the past nor the future. Hope and regret equally would
disarm her.

‘
Yes, perhaps,' she said, and changed the subject. 'How
are your hands, Flon? Are they any better? Perhaps you
should see a doctor.'

‘
Perhaps I should see yours,' Flon retorted, 'and have
him tell me I am too ill to work any longer. Yes, and
perhaps he might also tell me where to find a young man to
keep me!’

The evening went on in its usual way, the food and
warmth acting on the
émigrés'
spirits like an excess of wine, so that they became first cheerful, then merry, and a sugges
tion of cards was brushed aside in favour of a boisterous
game of charades. Héloïse was holding her sides, almost
crying with laughter at the spectacle of the toothless
Romorantin, as the goddess Diana, in a borrowed pelisse
and with a silver fruit-bowl on his head for a helmet and the
poker for a sword, tackling a lion, nobly portrayed by
Madame Chard in a moth-eaten, fur-lined cloak worn inside
out; when the party was disturbed by a violent knocking at
the street-door.

There was a silence, and apprehension in every face: they
had all had cause to fear the unexpected summons in the
night. A few minutes resolved the apprehension for all but
one. The visitor was a skinny urchin sent by Marie to
summon Héloïse home: Vendenoir had suffered a seizure.

*

Even the meanest of funerals was beyond Héloïse's reach,
but she was reluctant to have Vendenoir consigned to a
pauper's grave. Madame Chouflon solved the problem by
putting up some money herself, and dunning the better-off
émigrés
for the rest, though when she presented the purse
to Héloïse she told her very sourly that the money would be
better spent on new clothes for her and Marie. Héloïse was
deeply touched by the generosity of the
émigrés,
for they
could hardly hope to see the loan repaid. It was the final
irony of Vendenoir's life, and in keeping with the rest, that
he should be buried by the kindness of those he had so
much despised.

Only Héloïse and Marie were at the graveside; Madame
Chouflon had wanted to attend, for love of Héloïse, but she
was suffering from an attack of rheumatism which, spread
ing from her hands to other parts of her body, confined her
to her bed.

It was a cold day, and the sky was a blurred pinkish-grey.
The mist condensed on the bare trees in the graveyard and
dripped dismally on the women's bent heads, as the priest
hurried through the service, longing to get back to his fire.

His imperfect and hasty rendering of the words was punctu
ated by sniffs, and accompanied by the sound of dripping
water and the cawing of rooks.

When it was over, and he had departed, Héloïse
remained for a while, head bent, thinking about Vendenoir's
life, and praying for forgiveness, for herself as well as for
him. Forgive me if I am too joyful, dear Father. I have tried
to do what is right, truly I have. I think he did too, most of
the time. Let him be at peace now - and those he injured.
Let this be the end of all the bitterness.

She raised her head, and saw Marie trying not to shiver,
her nose red and her eyes damp. 'Home,' she commanded,
taking her arm. 'And when we get there we'll put every last
bit of coal we have on the fire, and sit so close to it we
scorch!’

When the fire was blazing, Héloïse made Marie sit down
in what had been Vendenoir's place, while she found the
remains of his last bottle of wine, added some water to it, a
little cinnamon, and the whole remaining lump of their
sugar, and heated it over the fire. When it was steaming, she
poured out a cup for each of them, and said, 'There, now,
drink that! It will warm you through.'

‘
Madame, that was all of our sugar. It was very extrava
gant of you,' Marie demurred. Héloïse smiled.

‘
Never mind. I am feeling extravagant. Dear friend, I give
you a toast: to the end of hardship, and to the good times to
come! Marie, we are going to be merry from now on, and all
your kindness to me will be rewarded, I promise you. Oh,
don't look so shocked! Do you think I should be sad and
sober because Vendenoir is dead?'

‘
Why - no, Madame -' Marie was evidently bewildered,
at a loss to know what she should think. 'I suppose,' she said
tentatively, 'there must be the usual period of mourning,
now that you are a widow?’

Héloïse laughed, and shook her head. ‘No, no mourning!
Oh, Marie, Marie, would you have me play the hypocrite?
Yes, I see you would - well, you must comfort yourself with
the thought that Vendenoir has already had his due. I
mourned him for a whole year the first time I was told he
was dead, and I may be a wicked, heartless sinner, but I
 
simply
will not
do it all again! One year was more than he
deserved, and nothing in this world or the next will make me
give him two!' She stood up and stretched out her arms and
danced, while Marie tried very hard not to look disapproving. She had a conventional soul, which was warring with
her usual propensity to think her mistress an angel who
could do no wrong.

‘
Madame, what
are
we going to do? We'll have more
money now that the master is gone, I suppose. Will we be
able to move away from this house?'

‘
Oh yes, we will leave this place,' Héloïse said, pausing in
her dance. 'We will pack our bags tonight - no, by St
Anthony, we won't pack our bags, for what is there in this
dismal house we could possibly want to take with us? I have
a little money I kept back from the funeral - I shall pay
them back, by the by, every penny, and more, too! - and
that should be enough for our fare, if we go on the stage
coach. And if it is not enough, well, we shall go as far as it
takes us, and walk the rest!'

‘
But where, Madame? Where shall we go?' Marie asked
anxiously, wondering if Héloïse was perhaps unbalanced by
the shock of the last few days. Héloïse whirled again, and
flung herself on her knees beside Marie and clasped her
hand. Her upturned face, alight with joy and excitement,
was like that of an impish child.

‘
Home, Marie! We are going home, to Morland Place in the County of Yorkshire, to my dear, dearest aunt Jemima,
and my cousins, and Oxney and Mrs Mappin and the dear
swans on the moat! Oh, I am so happy, I can hardly breathe, sweet Mother Mary forgive me! Tomorrow morning, Marie,
and not an instant later, we are going to go home!’

*

The money was enough, but only just enough. The two
women had to take outside seats on the stage, and the
journey was long and bitterly cold. They had worn their
warmest clothes, and packed all their other belongings in a
cloak-bag (Marie having won her point, that it would be
foolish to start out on a journey of two hundred miles with
nothing), and at the first long bait, they had taken the
opportunity to put on as many additional pieces of clothing
as would fit under or over what they were wearing.

It would not be quite true to say that Héloïse was too
happy to regard the cold, but her sufferings were greatly
mitigated by the joy with which she looked forward to
seeing Morland Place again. She dreamed and dozed and
gazed forward eagerly for some landmark she might recog
nize, and long before they came within sight of the Hare and
Heather, she expected every other traveller on the road to
be a Morland.

When they finally drew up in front of the inn, where the
coachman had agreed to put them down, she had no idea
how cold her feet and legs were, and when she was jumped
down, she staggered into the arms of the innkeeper's man,
unable to feel her feet at all.

‘
Tha'd best coom into t' parlour and have a warm, miss,'
the man suggested, eyeing them keenly, evidently not quite
sure of their status, for while
Héloïse
's bearing was that of a
lady, and Marie appeared to be her maid, there was no great
distinction between their clothing, and they had undoubt
edly travelled a long way on outside seats.

Héloïse, after stamping a few times, had discovered
where her feet were in relation to the ground, and was eager to put them to use. ‘No, I thank you. You are most kind, but
we must be off at once. Come, Marie. Let me take the bag.'

‘
Oh no, Madame, I will carry it. It is not heavy. Have we
far to walk?'

‘I think not. As I remember, it is this way.’

They walked off, and the man watched them go, scratching his head with some perplexity. He had a nagging sense
that he ought to have recognized them, and yet they had spoken to each other in Dutch or some such, and he was
sure he did not know any foreigners. Oh, well, he supposed
it would come to him some time, later in the day, when he
was thinking about something quite different. That was the
way it usually happened. He turned round to bellow at the
boy, who like him had been staring at the foreigners, but
with his mouth open. ‘Hastow nothing better to do than
gawp, tha great gowk? Tek 'old o' that box an' shift it round
t'back, if tha wants any wages this week!' And he gave the
boy a cuff on the side of the head to encourage virtue and
industry, and felt the better for doing his duty by him.

*

It was a longer walk than Marie had bargained for, and her
boots were not stout, but Héloïse walked as though her feet
were not touching the ground. She did not remember the
way in any detail, but she was sure she could walk straight to
Morland Place if she were blindfold and put down a
hundred miles off. They were on Morland land now, her
heart sang. This was Morland grass and those were Morland
trees, and –
Two horsemen had come into sight round the bend in the track. The second was a groom on a workmanlike hack, but
the leading rider was mounted on a large and handsome
long-eared bay, whose distinctive head had a rather curi
ously square muzzle.