The Smile of the Stranger (20 page)

“Oh, madame
!
You will take me? Oh, I do not know how to thank you—”

“
Et la petite i
ci
?
You wish me to take her in too? Or shall we turn her out into the town to starve?” Madame Reynard inquired cheerfully, pinching the cheek of Prue, who had stood scowling like a thundercloud while this incomprehensible conversation had gone on.

“It is a shocking imposition, ma
’
am, but if you could have her for tonight, I could take her to her grandfather
’
s tomorrow. It seems to be above a five-mile walk from here—I think it would be too far for her tonight.”

“So! We decide about that in the morning. For now, come inside,
to
u
s les deux
.”

Without further ado, Madame led them round to a side door and into the main part of the house.

“We go
in’
to stay wi
’
this lady?” whispered Prue.

“Yes. It is too far to go to your grandfather
’
s tonight,” replied Juliana.

Madame Reynard led them into a spacious, handsome room with a semicircular window looking out onto the garden and valley. The furniture was scanty, but French, and very elegant. Looking at it, Juliana was reminded of Herr Welcker, as she continued to think of him. The memory gave her a sudden queer pang. For who but he could have advised Juliana
’
s mother to find a decoy so closely resembling Charles the First? He must have been in the plot too. Oh, what a blind, naive, gullible simpleton I have been!

The weakness she felt at this disagreeable thought made her realize, all of a sudden, how extremely tired and hungry she was; sheer terror and the need to escape had hitherto borne her up, but now that she was, temporarily at least, in shelter, she found herself almost on the point of fainting. It seemed an eternity since that first hopeful, happy sortie through the forest; an eternity without any breakfast or dinner in it.

“
Vous avez faim
?”
inquired Madame Reynard, reappearing with wine and biscuits. “Here—a little of this will do you good. I am happy to say that French wine still finds its way to Petworth—up the Rectory Brook.” She gave a chuckle. “Now, Berthe will take the little one down to the kitchen and take care of her. She is not of you?”

“Madame? No,
indeed
!”
said Juliana, taken aback at this sharp question.

“No,
enfin,
you look too young to be her mother.
Va
,
Berthe, take
la petite,
and stuff her with
tartines
and sugar cakes and put her to bed.”

Prue was at first highly reluctant to be parted from Juliana, in whom, by now, she had acquired a certain degree of trust; but Berthe was such a fat, friendly, smiling dumpling of a French cook, who pulled a handful of sugar candy out of her pocket and said,
“
Viens avec moi, p
’
tite!”
that without the need for any linguistic exchange, her fears were allayed.

“I have been thinking
!
” said Madame Reynard, seating herself comfortably on a handsome ottoman and swinging her feet up with a flash of Valenciennes. She helped herself to a glass of wine and continued. “It would not be at all sensible for you to take Prue to her grandfather
’
s tomorrow.”

“Why, madame?”

“Why, what kind of a plotter are you? That is the first place where they will look! But see how fortunately it falls out! They will be asking for a young lady round the town. They may approach some of my workmen. Yes, we will say, a strange young lady with a child was seen; she asked her way to Hoghurrst Farm (brr, what a name!). So you must on no account go there.”

“I suppose that is true,” acknowledged Juliana. “But what is to be done? You cannot wish to keep Prue here, madame. She is the most disagreeable child!”

Madame Reynard laughed. “Oh, well, in that case I will take her over to her grandfather
’
s tomorrow, in my carriage. I can make up some tale—that I found her wandering, that you went up to London on the stagecoach. The main thing is that you should stay close in my house until we are sure your pursuers have left the district.”

“Your servants—?”

“Both French. They do not mingle with the townspeople. After a week or two we will let you out
—quite
changed in appearance—take off your cap, child!”

Juliana did so, and Madame remarked thoughtfully, “It may be best to change the color of your hair. Perhaps we turn you into a chestnut-head, like me. Then I tell everybody that the Free Traders have brought over my niece, from Rouen, who has come to live with me.”

“Oh, madame, you are too kind. I—I wish that I
was
your niece!”

“
Il n’ya
a pas de quoi!
I have not been so well amused for years; since Milord Egg began growing old and thinking of nothing but his oxen and his brown bread and vaccinations, my life has become
bien ennuyante,
I assure you. I am enchanted to have you, my child, and mean to enjoy your company to the full. Tell me, how comes it that you speak French so well? Most young English misses do not.”

“I was brought up in Geneva, madame, and then in Florence.”

“So? You speak Italian too?” she asked in that language. “Certainly, signora,” Juliana replied in the same tongue. “But this is famous! Milord Egg will want you for a
gouvernante
for his children, but I shall not part with you. You shall be my
dame de compagnie
. We shall read Dante and Moliere, and in course of time you shall tell me your whole history—with the names left out, of course, if you prefer it,” she said, suddenly changing her lively tone for one of the most kindly solicitude. “You have had a long, fatiguing, and distressing day—all men are deceivers, we know it, we know it, but
tout de meme,
each time one of them is caught out in his deceit, we must suffer the same shock and chagrin! Come along, I show you your room, and presently old Berthe will bring you a bowl of tisane. Then you weep away your troubles and sleep, and tomorrow you will be better.”

Setting down her wineglass, Madame rose and escorted Juliana upstairs to the next story, where she was accommodated in a neat little room which just had space for a bed, a chair, a closet, and a fireplace.

“Milord Egg built me this house,” Madame explained somewhat enigmatically.
“
When he was young, he was the
most extravagant man in the whole world—I had a gilt coach, diamonds, six racehorses of my own! But as we grow old we grow prudent. By the time he came to build my little nest, his spendthrift days were over. That is why I am now adding a new wing
...
Now, sleep well, my child, cry for your faithless lover and then forget him. Here is a night robe of mine—it is too large, but you will not regard that!”

With her engaging chuckle she handed Juliana a wonderfully frothy pile of gauze and tulle. Juliana accepted it with a smile and a quick stab of pain, remembering Captain Davenport saying, “My sister can lend you what you need for a night—after that it will be my delight to rig you out in the first stare of the mode.” No doubt the sister was all invention. Never, never again will I be so deceived by
anybody
, she resolved.

Old Berthe arrived with a steaming tisane and the welcome news that little Prue, after eating an enormous meal, had fallen asleep on a makeshift cot in the housemaid
’
s room and seemed likely to sleep the clock round.

Juliana, having finished the tisane, blew out her candle, fully prepared to follow Madame Reynard
’
s direction and cry her eyes out. The grave, handsome face of Captain Davenport, as he had been when he first rescued her at the Pantheon Rooms, did dangle tantalizingly before her in the darkness. How perfect he had seemed then. A tear or so trickled down. But either because the perfect image was now overlaid by what had happened today, or for some other reason not understood, her grief seemed to be for something else. She wept, but she did not know why. Her tears did not last very long, though. Very soon she followed little Prue
’
s example, and drifted off into oblivion.

X

When Juliana next awoke, she felt instantly in her bones that it must be very late, and this, consulting her father
’
s watch, she found to be the case: exhausted by the agitations of the previous day, or lulled by some soporific in Berthe
’
s tisane, she had slept until almost noon. She started up in bed with an inarticulate exclamation, and then discovered that she must have been roused by a sound from outside the room, for immediately afterward Berthe tapped on the door, and entered, bearing a tray which had on it a cup, a little silver pot of chocolate, and a crescent-shaped roll.

“
Bonjour, mademoiselle
, she said cheerfully. “
‘S
avez bien dormi
!”

“Oh,
mon
dieu
!”
Juliana exclaimed in horror. “Poor Madame! That terrible child! I should have been up long ago, and occupying myself with her.”

She had fallen naturally into French, since Berthe had spoken it.

“Don
’
t disquiet yourself, mademoiselle. The little one has been no trouble to anybody. She got up, ate a big breakfast, played with Madame
’
s monkey, and now Madame has taken her in the carriage to seek for her grandfather
’
s farm.”

“Good God! And Prue did this without disobedience
—
without making any complaint?”

Berthe shrugged. “She did not wish to go in the carriage, it is true; she wished to remain and play with the monkey. But when Madame intends a thing to be done—one does it. Madame does not like to waste time.”

Of this, Juliana soon had evidence: when, having drunk
her chocolate—which was very good—she wished to get up, Berthe said, “A
moment, mademoiselle. I call Rosine.”

Rosine, the housemaid, almost as elderly as Berthe, equally plump and friendly, arrived with a basin, a steaming kettle, and various mysterious little bags of dried roots and petals.

“Madame left instructions that, before coming downstairs, Mademoiselle
’
s hair was to be recolored, as a precaution,” she explained, tipping the contents of the bag into a jug and pouring hot water on top. “Mademoiselle
’
s hair is so pretty that it is almost a pity to alter it, but—we shall see
—
perhaps with chestnut hair she will be even more beautiful, who knows? And the color is not fast—it can be changed back later.”

Rather nervous and reluctant nonetheless, Juliana wrapped herself in a calico peignoir, and submitted to the ordeal of having her hair washed and immersed in Rosine
’
s mahogany-colored tincture. Apart from a natural anxiety as to the possible results, she also found herself entertaining some alarms about the
ménage
in which she now found herself
—
last night, Madame had seemed likable, trustworthy, a real friend in need; but might Juliana have entirely mistaken her nature, as she had that of Captain Davenport? Tales related by Fanny and Kitty and their friends came back to her: tales told with bated breath and round eyes, of innocent young girls stolen away—snatched in the street, abducted from respectable homes, drugged, spirited off into houses of evil fame, hideous bordellos, where, once deflowered, such girls were lost forever to decent society, could not even escape, for their families would not receive them back, they had nowhere to go, and so must resign themselves to a life of shame, almost inevitable disease, and probable early death. Was this to be her own fate? Had she walked into such a place?

However, Petworth seemed an unlikely location for a bordello, and it was difficult to sustain these terrors in the amiable presence of Rosine, who chattered away all the time she was rubbing Juliana
’
s head, about her home on a farm in Normandy, her father
’
s cider press and herd of cows, and how Madame intended to return to France for a long visit, as soon as the present war was concluded.

“For, although she loves Milord Egg very well, Petworth, as you may figure to yourself, is not too amusing.”

“Who is Milord Egg?” asked Juliana, remembering that this name had come up once or twice on the previous evening.

“Milord Egg? Why, he is Milord Egg. He is the Sieur de Petvurrt!” Rosine seemed astonished that everybody did not know about this personage, who lived in a huge house close by
“
un chateau
,
alors
”
and indeed owned the whole of Petworth and all the country for miles around. “And he is a Comte—but it is different in England—it is called an Errll.” Juliana hardly liked to ask what was the relationship between Madame Reynard and Milord Egg; it seemed all too obvious what it must be. Instead she inquired how long Madame had resided in Petworth. Rosine, counting on her fingers, replied, “Oh, it is now a long time. Nearly twenty years.”

“Twenty years
?”

“
Mai
s
oui
.
It was in 1774 that Milord first met my mistress in Paris—in those days she was the friend of the Due de Chartres. But she liked Milord Egg better, so she came to England with him, and they led a very gay life. At that time, Milord was a great Macaroni! He dressed all his postilions in white jackets trimmed with muslin, and he gave Madame so many diamonds that she had necklaces made even for her cats. And Milord was the friend of Monsieur Fox and the Prince of Wales—they spent more time in London then, at Milord Egg
’
s house in Piccadilly. But now Milord prefers to look after his oxen and plow his park, and gives prizes for work done by widows—the life he leads is altogether bourgeois! Still, he is a kind man, Milord Egg, and a good landlord
—
he has much
bont
é
.”

“Did they have any children?”
Juliana
asked, fascinated.

“
Mais ou
i,
bien s
u
r.
Two boys. Both are now in the
corps diplomatique,
in America. Madame did not wish it that they fight in the war, for which side could they be on, English or French? But they write her long letters; they are good boys. Milord, too, misses them very much. But he at least has the other children to console him.”

“Other children?”

“
Georges et Henri et la petite Fanny.
And Madame is now again enceinte; it will be a charming family.”

Juliana was startled. Since Madame Reynard was plainly
not
enceinte—having, indeed, long passed the age of childbearing—she could only assume that some other Madame was in question.

“Milord Egg has a wife?” she inquired cautiously.

“
Mais non, jamais
!
C
’
est sa belle-amie, Madame Iliffe—”
Rosine pronounced this name “Eeleef”—“a lady in the highest degree kind, charming, and agreeable. She and Madame Reynard are the closest possible friends.”

“Then are he and Madame Reynard not friends any more?” Oh, dear me, Grandfather would
not
approve of my asking these questions, Juliana thought; in fact, he would be quite horrified to discover the company I have fallen into, and so would Papa!

“But, of course they are friends!” said Rosine, shocked. “Milord comes to visit Madame every afternoon of his life, and she gives him very good advice about his family and his lands, for she is
tout d fait pratique—h
er
father was the Du
c
de Magon, and she knows all there is to know about running a big estate
...
Now, if Mademoiselle would be so kind as to sit up straight, I am going to give her head a great rub.”

Juliana submitted to the great rub, and subsequently to having her hair blown partially dry by the bellows. Then Rosine anointed her dyed locks with a delicious-smelling dark-green lotion which she said was essence of rosemary, and sat her by a sunny window which looked out over an orchard, handing her a large hairbrush.
“
Alors,
if Mademoiselle will give herself the trouble of brushing her hair five hundred times
...”

Brushing away dutifully, Juliana presently heard the sound of a carriage, and voices. To her surprise, shortly afterward, she saw little Prue run across the orchard, bowling a hoop under the apple trees. Had Madame Reynard, after all, failed to find the farm of old Mr. Strudwick?

She was rising to go and inquire, and make her apologies for oversleeping, when Rosine reappeared.

“Madame asks you to remain upstairs a little longer. She is closeted with her notary, and thinks it best that he does not see you. Only figure to yourself, mademoiselle, here is a placard up in the square of the town relating to a lost young lady who is sought by her mama, and the town crier was proclaiming it, and a constable was here this morning, inquiring, also!” Rosine chuckled comfortably.

“What was the constable told?” Juliana inquired with some anxiety.

“
Eh bien,
one informed him that yesterday evening a young lady came inquiring the way to Hoghurrst Farm, and that without doubt she had become lost in the forest. Those woods on the other side of the valley extend for many leagues, and it is well known that they are full of ferocious animals, foxes and weasels; most probably the young lady will never be seen again!
...
Now I devise a new coiffure for Mademoiselle.”

Rosine had brought in a large glossy switch of chestnut
-
colored hair, no doubt made from the combings of Madame Reynard, and, pinning it among Juliana
’
s own locks, which were now exactly the same color, she constructed an elaborate chignon, after the style of Madame
’
s own headdress.

“It is entirely elegant,” she said, admiring her own handiwork. “Now Mademoiselle appears altogether a different person.”

Juliana was indeed startled at her own image in the glass Rosine held up to her; she hardly recognized herself. The
different color and style of hair had apparently altered the shape of her face. I look so much older; grown up, she thought. She was not sure that she liked the change. But certainly as a disguise it must be considered admirably successful; even Papa would hardly know me now, she decided, rather sadly.

Madame Reynard appeared, walking along the flagged path below the window with a small, round-faced, short
-
sighted-looking elderly gentleman, and Rosine, touching a finger to her lips, drew Juliana back out of sight.
“
C
’
est le notaire—M. Trockmorrton
,”
she whispered. “In one minute he will be gone—then Mademoiselle may descend.”

Indeed, shortly after, farewells were heard, then Madame
’
s voice was heard calling, and Juliana ran down, to be greeted with a cordial handshake and a kiss.

“
Alors,
here is my dear niece!” Madame said, laughing.
“
D
ieu de dieu,
what a transformation! Rosine is an artist! Now, the next thing is to find you some clothes. For today I fear you must endure to wear a dress of mine when I was younger—I was thinner then, so it will be not too bad a fit—and, most fortunately,
les gentilshommes
visited us last night, when there was no moon, so today we have a fine bundle of beautiful Lyons silks to make you a new outfit.”

“The gentlemen, madame? Who are they?”

“
Chut
!”
Madame Reynard held up a warning finger. “Everyone knows about them—even Milord Egg—but no one must speak of them because of course they are breaking the stupid law. They navigate by boat up the Rectory Brook as far as Haslingbou
rn
e Mill, and then they come up the valley and leave their goods in my little
kiosque,
before taking his wine and tea on to Milord Egg by way of the subterranean route.”

“Good God!” said Juliana, greatly startled. “You mean that Milord Egg”—
surely
that could not be his real name?
—
“makes use of smuggled goods?”

“But naturally
!
” said Madame, raising her brows. “
Every
body
does. How else could Milord afford to build all the hospitals he does, and repair the jail, and construct almshouses, and effect so much good among the poor? Why, remember that tea costs ten shillings a pound, and Georges is
so
fond of his tea! Do you now know that, out of thirteen million pounds of tea drunk each year in this land, only five million have paid duty?”

Juliana did remember some indignant pronouncement of Lord
Lambourn
’
s upon the subject. But
he,
of course, had strongly disapproved of smuggling.

“Madame—” she began, thinking it best to change the subject.

“I think you must learn to call me Tante Elise, my dear. And I shall call you—what?”

Juliana, remembering her assumed identity on the journey through France, said that she had sometimes been known as Jeanne.

“Jeann
e—tres bien!
My niece Jeanne Duthe. Duthe was my maiden name.”

‘
Tante
El
ise, why have you brought back little Prue? Could you not find her grandfather
’
s farm?”

“I found it, my child, but what a pigsty! One could not condemn a child—even the naughtiest—to live in such a spot! And there was no
fermiere
—she must have died—only the most evil old wretch, who snarled at me that he wished to have nothing to do with his daughter
’
s infant of shame. So I have brought Prue back again. And if the constable goes inquiring to the farm, I am sure he will get no help at all.”