"I am very sorry," said the elder of the old ladies, addressing herself to Elspeth, "that there is not a bed for you in the house. You see, our establishment is very small. But we have arranged for you to sleep at a house a few minutes away, where there is a good woman who will make you very comfortable. You can put the little boy to bed before retiring there, and, of course, come and dress him in the morning, if he requires it."
Elspeth looked mutinous, and her mouth took on a line which Anne-Hilarion knew very well.
"A'm thinkin', Mem," she replied, "it wad be best for me tae hae a wee bit bed in here."
Mme. de Chaulnes shook her head. "I am afraid," she said, with equal pleasantness and firmness, "that that arrangement would not suit us at all." And there was nothing for it but acquiescence.
"See, here is a good place to put your goldfish," said Mlle. Angèle meanwhile to Anne-Hilarion. "And then, when she has washed your face and hands for you, mon chéri, your nurse will bring you downstairs, and you shall have something to eat, for I am sure you must be hungry after your journey."
(2)
Dwellers in Canterbury were well accustomed to the two old French ladies who lived so retired and so refined a life in the little brick house with the portico; indeed the dames of that ancient city took a sympathetic interest in the exiles. Those who were on visiting terms with them spoke many a laudatory word of the interior of Rose Cottage—of its exquisite neatness and elegance, of the superior china and the spotless napery. But the number of ladies in a position to pronounce these encomiums was limited, for Mme. and Mlle. de Chaulnes entertained not at all in the regular sense of the word. Yet, for all their modest manner of life, they were not penurious; rather was it noised abroad that they gave largely of their substance to their needy fellow-countrymen of their own convictions—for, of course, they were Royalists themselves and of noble birth. Hence, if any émigré were stranded on the Dover road in the neighbourhood of Canterbury it was usual—if the speaker's command of French were sufficient—to direct him to these charitable compatriots. Often, indeed, refugees were to be found staying for a few days at Rose Cottage.
Rumour had endowed the French ladies with a moving and tragic past. Over Mme. de Chaulnes' mantelpiece hung a small portrait in oils of a gentleman in uniform—to be precise, that of a Garde Française of the fifties, but nobody knew that—and the story went that this was her husband, the brother of Mlle. Angèle, who had either been (1) guillotined, or (2) slain in the defence of the Tuileries on the 10th of August 1792, or (3) killed in the prison massacres in the September of the same year. No one, not even the boldest canon's wife, had dared to ask Mme. de Chaulnes which of these theories might claim authentic circulation; no one, in fact, had even ventured to inquire if the gentleman in uniform was her husband. For, though so small and gentle, she 'had an air about her' which was far from displeasing the ladies of the Close and elsewhere; they were, on the contrary, rather proud of knowing the possessor of it.
(3)
Not many hours later, Anne-Hilarion, fed and reposed (for, as each old lady said to the other, he must not be overtired), was seated on a small chair in front of a cheerful little fire in the hall, chattering gaily to the two fairy godmothers who knitted on either side of the hearth. He was never inordinately shy with strangers, and, the first encounter over, he was probably much happier than was Elspeth in the company of the old Frenchwoman in the kitchen. He related to them every detail of his journey, while the old grey cat on the rug, with tucked-in paws, blinked her eyes sleepily at the unfamiliar treble. And Mme. de Chaulnes told him about the cat, and how she had once brought up a family of orphaned kittens, and Mlle. Angèle was much interested in his goldfish, though as yet there was hardly any history to relate of that acquisition.