I was sleeping soundly when Joséphine brought me my morning chocolate and drew up the blind. She informed me that Mademoiselle hoped I had slept well, and would do me the honour of calling on me in the afternoon. This courtesy both astonished and gratified me. I had understood that Joséphine had half smuggled me into the house, and that her mistress had only given a grudging consent to my admittance.
The morning I devoted to examination of my quarters. I found the door of the mysterious chamber locked, but as the key was on the outside, I had the indiscretion to turn it and look in. It was a luxurious bedroom, and was as blue as one of Lesueur’s paintings. Young Madame Vermont must indeed have adored the colour to suffer it in such monotonous excess. The bed, of black polished wood, was hung with blue silk curtains; the carpet was of blue cloth, and blue prevailed in the handsome rugs that relieved it. The couches, the chairs, were covered with blue silk, and blue muslin even draped the long looking-glass. The bed looked ready for use; the blue embroidered coverlet was turned down, and across the lace-edged sheet was flung an unrolled night-dress, as if somebody were momently expected to lift it. On the dressing-table several dainty objects of feminine toilette lay ready to hand—even a little crushed lace handkerchief was thrown hastily against a silver hand-mirror. Beside the bed was a pair of black velvet slippers, and across a chair a frilled and expensive wrapper. Even the water in the carafe on the table was fresh, and there were matches beside the silver-wrought candle-stick. A beautiful jar on an inlaid table in the window recess contained hot-house flowers that were only beginning to fade, but their untainted perfume told of water daily renewed.
It was easy to divine the secret story of that woman’s chamber. Mademoiselle cherished the delusion, as unsubstantial food for her hungry heart, that its occupant was merely absent, and might be expected any day—any hour. She refused to accept the irrevocableness of death, and kept the chamber ready for the wandering spirit when the ties of earth should recall it. This was the meaning of the turned-down bed and unfolded night-dress; of the flowers in the jar sent from the city and carefully watered each evening; of the little handkerchief eloquently wisped against the silver mirror. I retreated softly, and closed the door as if of some sacred place.
After an interview with the maid who came to wait upon me, I lounged in the gallery until the midday breakfast. The aspects and surroundings enchanted me still more by day than they had done the night before. I felt alone—solemnly alone between large spaces of sky and water. Underneath, the river flowed broadly, and upon its bosom the big barges travelled southward, and lighter vessels glided swiftly by to drop behind the bridge, whence the eye could follow their path no more. Below the broken arches and towered points of the bridge went the road to Beaufort and the wide world, a white dust-blown band along the grey horizon. Under a blazing sun showed the outlines of the city, and the strained ear might detect the far-off murmur of looms by help of the factory chimneys. But this needed an effort of imagination in so heavy and dense a silence.
After breakfast I bethought myself of a visit to the melancholy garden by way of change. On the stairs I caught the pleasant patter of small feet and the shrill, sweet notes of a child’s voice. I stepped into the hall, where Gabrielle was at play. She was not pretty, but so lively and spirited and quaint, that she gave a fuller notion of the charm of childhood than any pretty child I have known. She knew neither shyness nor fear. When she saw me, she stopped her play, and approached me boldly.
‘You are the strange lady Joséphine says I am not to bore,’ she said gravely, without any resentment or surprise that she should be asked to consider me.
‘I hope you will bore me a good deal, little one,’ I replied. ‘I love children, and am delighted when they take notice of me and chatter to me.’
‘I like chattering, too, but my aunt is very silent. She is always learning lessons and reading books. Do you learn lessons still?’
‘Sometimes, when I am not too lazy. But I am like you, I don’t like lessons and work,—I prefer play.’