"Good day, Mademoiselle, so you are here."
"Yes, Madame."
"You are tired. Come upstairs. I will show you your room."
My relief at finding that the French I had learnt was real after all, was less strong than a sudden feeling of fright—religious fright, for God speaks only English—before the blasphemous oddness of the thing. After all, my conversations with Miss le Mesurier had only been for conversation's sake: by way of learning the trick. But this real talking, this conducting of life's actual business in the foreign jargon!—(I prayed swiftly to know. "Little fool," replied God, in French.)
I followed the little old lady into a lofty hall, very cool after the heat outside, a cold and stately place. Doors opened out of it on every side, surmounted with antlers. On the walls I saw armour, old swords, banners. We mounted a broad staircase with walls covered in tapestries. A mighty staircase. Majesty filled me.
"Here is your bedroom," said the little lady, "and this door leads through to your study or boudoir, call it what you like. I hope you will like them both."
"They are beautiful!" I cried, and my heart beat faster as I surveyed the bright bedchamber, the bed-hangings in rose-coloured chintz, the elegant boudoir with book-case and writing-desk and walls covered with portraits and miniatures and little racks for cups and vases—all for me. My heart exulted in contrasts. Oh, now I was a lady!
"You will want to wash your hands. I shall wait for you. I am so glad you have come. Your presence—that is your arrival—it gives me pleasure.... Now come downstairs to luncheon to be introduced to us all. They will be so delighted to see you, dear Mademoiselle, my daughters—"
"Then you are—"
"Madame de Florian."