“Mademoiselle Vallé is an intelligent woman,” the Duchess said as though thinking the matter out. “Send her to me and we will talk the matter over. Then she can bring the child.”
CHAPTER XXVI
As a result of this, her grace saw Mademoiselle Vallé alone a few mornings later and talked to her long and quietly. Their comprehension of each other was complete. Before their interview was at an end the Duchess’ interest in the adventure she was about to enter into had become profound.
“The sooner she is surrounded by a new atmosphere, the better,” was one of the things the Frenchwoman had said. “The prospect of an arrangement so perfect and so secure fills me with the profoundest gratitude. It is absolutely necessary that I return to my parents in Belgium. They are old and failing in health and need me greatly. I have been sad and anxious for months because I felt that it would be wickedness to desert this poor child. I have been torn in two. Now I can be at peace—thank the good God.”
“Bring her to me tomorrow if possible,” the Duchess said when they parted. “I foresee that I may have something to overcome in the fact that I am Lord Coombe’s old friend, but I hope to be able to overcome it.”
“She is a baby—she is of great beauty—she has a passionate little soul of which she knows nothing.” Mademoiselle Vallé said it with an anxious reflectiveness. “I have been afraid. If I were her mother——” her eyes sought those of the older woman.
“But she has no mother,” her grace answered. Her own eyes were serious. She knew something of girls, of young things, of the rush and tumult of young life in them and of the outlet it demanded. A baby who was of great beauty and of a passionate soul was no trivial undertaking for a rheumatic old duchess, but—“Bring her to me,” she said.
So was Robin brought to the tall Early Victorian mansion in the belatedly stately square. And the chief thought in her mind was that though mere good manners demanded under the circumstances that she should come to see the Dowager Duchess of Darte and be seen by her, if she found that she was like Lord Coombe, she would not be able to endure the prospect of a future spent in her service howsoever desirable such service might outwardly appear. This desirableness Mademoiselle Vallé had made clear to her. She was to be the companion of a personage of great and mature charm and grace who desired not mere attendance, but something more, which something included the warmth and fresh brightness of happy youth and bloom. She would do for her employer the things a young relative might do. She would have a suite of rooms of her own and a freedom as to hours and actions which greater experience on her part would have taught was not the customary portion meted out to a paid companion. But she knew nothing of paid service and a preliminary talk of Coombe’s with Mademoiselle Vallé had warned her against allowing any suspicion that this “earning a living” had been too obviously ameliorated.
“Her life is unusual. She herself is unusual in a most dignified and beautiful way. You will, it might almost be said, hold the position of a young lady in waiting,” was Mademoiselle’s gracefully put explanation.