“Les toiles d’araignées auront peur!” she whispered.
Miriam ceased playing and her eyes went up to the little window frames high in the wall, farthest away from the island made by their two little beds and the matting and toilet chests and scarcely visible in the flickering candle-light, and came back to Mademoiselle’s face.
“Les toiles d’araignées,” she breathed, straining her eyes to their utmost size. They gazed at each other. “Les toiles ...”
Mademoiselle’s laughter came first. They sat holding each other’s eyes, shaken with laughter, until Mademoiselle said, sighing brokenly, “Et c’est la cloche qui va sonner immédiatement.” As they undressed, she went on talking—“the night comes ... the black night ... we must sleep ... we must sleep in peace ... we are safe ... we are protected ... nous craignons Dieu, n’est ce pas?” Miriam was shocked to find her at her elbow, in her nightgown, speaking very gravely. She looked for a moment into the serious eyes challenging her own. The mouth was frugally compressed. “Oh yes,” said Miriam stiffly.
They blew out the candle when the bell sounded and got into bed. Miriam imagined the Martins’ regular features under their barley and poppy trimmed hats. She knew exactly the kind of English hat it would be. They were certainly not pretty hats—she wondered at Mademoiselle’s French eyes being so impressed. She knew they must be hats with very narrow brims, the trimming coming nearly to the edge and Solomon’s she felt sure inclined to be boat-shaped. Mademoiselle was talking about translated English books she had read. Miriam was glad of her thin voice piercing the darkness—she did not want to sleep. She loved the day that had gone; and the one that was coming. She saw the room again as it had been when Mademoiselle had looked up towards the toiles d’araignées. She had never thought of there being cobwebs up there. Now she saw them dangling in corners, high up near those mysterious windows unnoticed, looking down on her and Mademoiselle ... Fräulein Pfaff’s cobwebs. They were hers now, had been hers through cold dark nights.... Mademoiselle was asking her if she knew a most charming English book ... “La Première Prière de Jessica”?
“Oh yes.”
“Oh, the most beautiful book it would be possible to read.” An indrawn breath, “Le Secret de Lady Audley.”
“Yes,” responded Miriam sleepily.
11
After the gay breakfast Miriam found herself alone in the schoolroom listening inadvertently to a conversation going on apparently in Fräulein Pfaff’s room beyond the little schoolroom. The voices were low, but she knew neither of them, nor could she distinguish words. The sound of the voices, boxed in, filling a little space shut off from the great empty hall made the house seem very still. The saal was empty, the girls were upstairs at their housework. Miriam restlessly rising early had done her share before breakfast. She took Harriett’s last letter from her pocket and fumbled the disarranged leaves for the conclusion.