The House in Paris (5 page)

'You'll wake Mme Fisher, too.'

'I'm sorry,' Leopold said, with unwilling lips. She could not have believed he could go so small. The catastrophe seemed to seem to him final, for he made no effort to pick anything up but stood frozenly mortified. His face was a mask for Henrietta to laugh at: she did not know what it feels like to look a fool. Leopold looked to her like one of those perplexed comedians who trip over their flat feet or sit on their hats. For the first time this morning a smile twitched up her cheeks, then she laughed outright: she sat on the sofa excitedly laughing, pushing her hair back like a girl at a pantomime.

'Stop that,' said Leopold, trembling.

'You ought to be glad I'm not angry. I did say — '

Leopold raised his eyes in a burning dark look that would have killed if it could. 'I don't care how angry you are.'

'Oh, don't be such a baby!' said Henrietta, unnerved but with her most Alice-ish air. She flopped on to her knees to pick up the cake of soap, and stayed looking round. 'I think you might help,' she said.

'You
are
pleased with yourself,' said Leopold, without moving.

Henrietta, kneeling, looked angrily at his knees. She noticed a scar on one, where he must have tripped up running and come down violently: the idea pleased her. 'Well, what else are
you?'
she said. This produced such a silence that she got still more frightened and crawled off after the apple: 'You're
spoilt,'
she then added recklessly, reaching for it under the armchair.

'What is
The Strand Magazine
?' demanded Leopold suddenly, picking it up as though nothing were going on.

Henrietta was glad of the anticlimax. 'Oh, just a magazine.'

'English,' said Leopold. He pressed his nose into the pages and said: 'It smells English too. What's the Strand?'

'Hush!'
exclaimed Henrietta, sitting back suddenly. 'Somebody's coming. Miss Fisher's coming downstairs.'

3

Miss Fisher glanced apprehensively round the salon. 'Why, look!' she said, darting to pick up the second apple. When she stooped, a frill of maroon petticoat dipped under her skirt. 'Whose is it?' she said.

'Mine,' said Henrietta. 'It just fell out of my case.'

'It has bruised, I'm afraid: what a pity! Never mind, Henrietta, I will give you an orange. Imagine, tomorrow you may see oranges growing on trees. What a spring you will have — the sun at this time of year. How I would wish to be you!' She brought out her handkerchief and dusted the apple sadly.

'What a pity you can't!' said Henrietta, polite. Leopold looked at Miss Fisher as though she were mad, but her madness was nothing to him, and walked away to the window with
The Strand Magazine.
His presence must have had an unnerving effect on Miss Fisher, who was sillier than she had been before. Now she said with an anxious glance towards him: 'You two have made friends, I see.'

'Yes, thank you,' said Henrietta.

Miss Fisher's uncertain smile faded uncertainly. 'That is very nice,' she said. 'You are company for each other. That will help to pass the day.'

'I shan't be here long,' said Leopold.

'Naturally, naturally not,' agreed Miss Fisher, sending Henrietta a speaking glance. 'Leopold is expecting his mother this afternoon,' she said in a stage voice.

'I know,' said Henrietta basely, 'you told me.'

To hide how sharply she felt Henrietta's betrayal, Miss Fisher made a business of putting down her handbag near the edge of the table beside the apple. She said: 'This afternoon, if my mother can sleep and does not need me with her, you and I will go out, Henrietta, to see a little of Paris.'

'Oh, thank you. The Trocadéro is what I want to see.'

'Don't you mean the Arc de Triomphe?'

'No, thank you, the Trocadéro.'

'But that is not historic, not in very good taste. I had thought we might visit the Luxembourg, so near here. And perhaps Napoleon's tomb.'

'I don't care for Napoleon,' said Henrietta.

'But I think your grandmother might — '

'I don't suppose she'd mind.'

'Notre Dame — '

'I'd sooner see the Trocadéro, thank you. I've got a picture of it in my glove-box at home.'

Miss Fisher, sighing, turned to the window again. 'So Henrietta gave you her magazine,' she said. 'Are you still tired, Leopold? Would you like a glass of milk?'

'No, not milk, thank you.'

'And after the Trocadéro,' pursued Henrietta, 'might we — '

But someone was tapping decisively overhead.

'My mother is waiting all this time,' cried Miss Fisher. 'She did not sleep much last night but slept on into this morning; she awoke most anxious to see you, Henrietta, at any cost. She has so often heard me speak of your grandmother, since the year I returned from Chambéry. So if you are rested now, I think we will go up.'

Henrietta was appalled. 'Isn't she much too ill?'

'Not for a little visit. You will be a great interest. She lies there alone so much.'

'Doesn't she want to see Leopold?'

Miss Fisher turned her eyes down, and if she had not had such a sallow skin might have flushed. 'Leopold ought to rest more,' she said quickly. 'He has to be so fresh when his mother comes.'

Henrietta tugged her red belt round till the buckle came to the front again, and ran a finger inside her starched Peter Pan collar. She felt victimized. 'I don't speak French very well.'

But Miss Fisher, taking no notice, waited with what seemed to Henrietta a smile of the sheerest fanaticism, holding the door open. Henrietta, having glanced once at Leopold, walked out ahead of her. The door shut behind them with a triumphant click.

The Strand Magazine
had looked a gold mine to Leopold, but its trafficky cover and glazed smell turned out to be richer than its contents. Frowning with scornful mystification, but still reading, he walked, when the women had gone, across to the sofa, where he lay over the magazine on one elbow, turning over the pages with quick brown hands as though he had England here. He pored over the photographs of statesmen and battleships, the drawings of frank girls, butlers, sports cars and oak-beamed rooms. The funny stories and pictures brought him to a full stop. His passionate lack of humour was native and untutored; no one had taught him that curates, chars, duchesses, spinsters are enough, in England, to make anyone smile. The magazine perplexed Leopold with its rigid symbolism, Martian ideology. A veil of foreign sentiment hung over every image, making it unclear. Once, at the figure of an admiral saluting, something went up in him like a firework. But he did not know what the magazine was
about.
Hoping for something concrete, he went through the advertisements. He sighed, shifted on his elbow and looked away.

Miss Fisher had forgotten her handbag. Set on driving Henrietta upstairs, she had forgotten the rubbed black morocco bag sitting there by the apple. Leopold's eye lit on it with the immediate thought that inside there might be letters about him. Focusing on the handbag, he listened sharply. There was no movement upstairs. Leopold left the sofa, fingered the steel clasp, then opened the bag collectedly. The thing, with its sad grey lining, gave out a musky smell. From between two handkerchiefs and a notecase, Leopold, with the nimbleness of a squirrel, pulled out three envelopes. The other papers — lists in French and a telegram confirming the hour of Henrietta's arrival — were not interesting. Leopold went through everything else twice, to delay for some nervous reason a second glance at the letters. To eavesdrop is an ordeal. Then he shut the bag and put it back by the apple. You could have sworn by its look it had not been touched.

The first envelope bore the Mentone postmark and would be of interest only to Henrietta. He put it aside. The second — light grey Villa Fioretta note-paper — showed the well-known writing of his Aunt Marian. The third, dead white and square, with a Berlin postmark, was addressed in that hand at once dynamic and pausing that he had learnt last week to recognize as his mother's, although she had never written to him. This envelope was thin, it was
very
thin: it was empty. His mother's letter was gone: Miss Fisher had done him down.

Leopold, with his loot, knelt on the end of the sofa, unconsciously holding his head high. He thought: It was Berlin then — she's in Paris now, though. I shall
see
her; I don't need to know what she
said.
That very door will open before it's dark, before it's three o'clock, before Henrietta has got to the Trocadéro. From that door opening, I shall remember on. If I opened that door
now
there would be the hall wallpaper.
Then
when it opens there will be her face. I shall see what I cannot imagine now. Now she's in Paris somewhere because of me ...

Then he unfolded Aunt Marian's copious letter. She wrote:

My dear Miss Fisher: I have had your second letter, which is most clear, and have to thank you for writing so fully. We shall now put Leopold into the train at Genoa with every confidence. As for the next two days, we must all hope for the best. We, of course, feel bound to defer to your wish and his mother's. I know you will share
our
wish that Leopold should be spared any
trying
scene, which we naturally dread for him at his age and with his highly nervous, susceptible temperament. Leopold will arrive at the Gare de Lyon at 20.33 on Wednesday night, unless you get any telegram cancelling this. He will travel in charge of a Genoese friend of ours, Signora Bonnini, who has relations in Paris and whom we find sympathetic in every sense. You must expect, we fear, to receive a tired young traveller, for Leopold is highly excitable; I may say we dread the effect of this long trip under
these agitating conditions.
Please do not feed him last thing, as his digestion is delicate and mental tension always affects his stomach. A glass of milk and perrier (equal parts) should be sufficient (or perhaps a
weak bouillon
), whatever he may say. We will tell him to walk right down the train and wait for you by the barrier. He will be wearing a fawn top-coat and blue sailor cap; Signora Bonnini, who says she will wear sealskin and has a slight growth of hair on the upper lip, has promised to wait by him. We are giving Signora Bonnini the photograph of yourself you thoughtfully sent, and are warning Leopold not to consult any stranger or reply to any advance. Though he speaks Italian fluently his knowledge of French is slight; we cannot interest him in it.

We all feel from your heartfelt and
most
understanding letter that you will extend to Leopold thoughtful sympathy. How he has changed from the dark-eyed baby you knew. It is sad that so many years should have gone by without your promised visit, and that your dear mother's health should have been the cause of this. We hope her health is not worse, and that Leopold's mother's visit will not agitate her. We know of your tender feeling for Leopold, which your tie in the past with his unfortunate father will always renew. How undying friendship is! We feel that, apart from the circumstance of his birth, Leopold's heredity (instability on the father's side, lack of control on the mother's) may make conduct difficult for him, and are attempting to both guard and guide him accordingly. He shows extreme sensibility and his mind is most interesting. We believe him to be creative, so are encouraging handicrafts and, so far as possible, relaxing outdoor games. We do not consider him ripe for direct sex-instruction yet, though my husband is working towards this through botany and mythology. When the revelation regarding himself must come, what better prototypes could he find than the Greek and other heroes, we feel. His religious sense seems to be still dormant. We are educating him on broad undenominational lines such as God is Love.

We have of course no idea
what
revelations Leopold's mother may see fit to make, but we do trust you will beg her to be discreet and have regard for his temperament and the fact that he has not yet received direct sex-instruction. Almost any fact she might mention seems to us still unsuitable. We have written her advocating extreme caution, but as she has not replied we do not know in what spirit our letter was received. You will no doubt have a few words with her first, and we should be deeply grateful if you would stress our point. Our position is often trying; you will understand that
we
exercise the very greatest discretion. We dread having Leopold prematurely upset. We have explained to Leopold (though strangely, he never asked) that his father is dead and his mother married in England (for the second time, we allowed him to understand). Why he is
not
with her he has, happily, not asked either. He appears to suspect nothing and exhibits no sign of brooding. We attempt to keep his childhood sunny and beautiful, and do entreat that our work may not be
undone.

We shall send packed with Leopold two changes of warm underwear, and shall be grateful if you or your maid will kindly see that he puts everything on. Will you also inquire if he has bowel trouble, as the effects of a journey are so binding and his digestion easily gets upset? At midday he eats anything but should be encouraged to masticate. Will you also notify us by telegram as to which train on Saturday we are to expect him home on? Also kindly mention that this letter has reached you. Please also keep a note of any expenses incurred by you during Leopold's time in Paris. Though it is of course possible that his mother may prefer to meet these herself.

Believing we may rely on you to see that the misgivings we cannot but feel are not justified, and with warm good wishes from my husband, my sister and myself. I remain, dear Miss Fisher, Yours most sincerely,

MARIAN GRANT MOODY

The repercussions on Leopold of this letter were such that for some time he seemed to stay quite blank. He sat pulling at his upper lip with his thumb and finger, in the way his Aunt Sally once said would spoil the mouth God had designed, staring at what he now saw from the outside. The revulsion threatening him became so frightening that he quickly picked up Mrs Arbuthnot's letter and read it, as though to clap something on to the gash in his mind.